


The Face I Wear

by ManiacsofTamriel



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Daedra Worship, Daedric Artifacts, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Revenge, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 149,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManiacsofTamriel/pseuds/ManiacsofTamriel
Summary: Fourteen years ago, J'hazarr committed an unspeakable crime.  He has never stopped running from his own past.. until a chance encounter with an irascible Argonian thief sets into motion a chain of events that will force him to face judgement for what he has done.





	1. Prologue and Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Isaac here. This is a roleplay written by myself and Xyshurondor back in 2017. I've just now gotten around to editing it. When editing Through Blood and Through Fire, I attempted to make the story more novel-like. In this one, I am editing posts together for coherence when I think it serves the story, but in other places I'm leaving the text as-is. You'll notice that some events will be described twice, by different characters. In these cases I thought it was more important to preserve each character's point of view than to make sure the prose flows exactly like a novel. Sometimes the effect can be clunky, but I truly believe this is one of the best character stories we've written. I hope you'll think so, too.
> 
> Also, a note about artifacts and spells in this story: Morrowind is our favorite game, so whenever there's a conflict related to game mechanics or lore within the series, we side with Morrowind. The Staff of Corruption wasn't featured in Morrowind, so the Staff in this story is based on the artifact from Daggerfall and Oblivion.

# Prologue

 

**3E 416**

**The Imperial City, Cyrodiil**

J'hazarr was for once grateful for his blunted senses, though even that did not shield him from the stifling stink of mildew, rot, and shit. It stormed violently above. Several feet of brick and earth insulated them from the worst of the wind, but cold air still blew in from the grates above to breathe against his damp skin. Water dripped down the Ohmes-raht's tattooed brow, plastering strands of dull copper hair to his forehead. J'hazarr could feel that the stone was disgustingly slick even through his boots, not only from water, but at times with wet clumps of fur or pulpy, black little things that squished when stepped on. Decaying pieces of rats or other animals, he assumed. Perhaps rats drowned in the water and were deposited on the walkway when the water receded after a flooding.

The sewer was surprisingly noisy. Rainwater poured rapidly down from the flooded streets and rushed through the channels cut into the floor. Rusty clangs echoed from a distant corridor as feet trod over grates – feet belonging to something far heavier than a rat. Sounds bounced down the halls and off the vaulted ceilings, amplifying the noises and making it difficult to tell which direction they had come from. J'hazarr hoped that whatever it was would come for them. Magicka thrummed below his skin, ready to burst from his fingertips at the slightest twitch. It was _almost_ uncomfortable, like holding in laughter, and he would love any excuse to release it.

Shadows retreated before the torch Morga carried and swallowed up the path behind them as they went, but every now and then flashes from above flooded the cavernous rooms with white light and seared the shadow of a grate upon the floor like a brand.

It was not long before they came to the shrine, although referring to the crude icon carved directly into the wall with such a word seemed a profanity. The figure was a robed woman holding a staff that became a serpent, its curled fangs bared in a hiss. Bricks scavenged from the walls had been piled up below it to form a sort of altar, and Morga stooped to light the candles left there from her torch before wedging it into a sconce above the shrine. Her forehead, the tops of her cheeks, and her short tusks gleamed wetly in the light from above, harsh and unflattering. She had a very broad, smushed-in face and beady yellow eyes. Like most Orcs, Morga was far removed from any race's idea of beauty, but J'hazarr had never known a sharper mind than hers.

A face wasn't everything, anyway. J'hazarr watched her from the side as she lowered the hood of her robe and knelt before the shrine. The wet fabric clung to the Orc's muscular back and the curve of her hips in the most enthralling way, but he forced his eyes away and knelt alongside her. Cold moisture leached through his robe at the knees. His hood was already pulled back to allow his longer hair to dry. Morga kept hers arranged in rows of close braids. His was jaw-length, windswept and unbound.

J'hazarr was hardly beautiful himself. At a distance he might pass for a Bosmer, with his tan skin and black-on-black eyes, if not for the elaborate stripes tattooed in aged grey-blue ink across his cheeks, forehead, and the bridge of his nose. Even the outer shell of his pointed ears had been tattooed with a thin line of stripes that ended in a colored tip. Although he resembled a mer, he lacked most of those merish features that might have made him more pleasant to behold. J'hazarr's forehead slanted back sooner than it ought. His nose was not quite as smushed-in as Morga's, but it was distractingly long and flattish. The bridge was very broad near his eyes and the blunted tip almost pointed downward. His thin lips pouted slightly outward as if he were storing a bit of air in his mouth. His chin wasn't so bad; not quite the tapered point of an elf, not quite the heavy square jaw of a man, but something in-between. His jawline was mostly hidden beneath a line of short, bushy hair in any case – not wiry like real hair, but more fur-like, dull copper interspersed with strands of blonde and brown. It did not grow on his chin or further up his cheeks. He had the high cheekbones of a mer although the tattoos detracted from this feature.

J'hazarr's body beneath his grey robe was nearly naked of hair, just like a Bosmer, and what hair he did have was again more like fur. Thin little copper hairs lightly dusted his tail and gradually grew thicker, ending in a tuft of fur at the tip. His tail was hidden beneath the robe. It wasn't something he wore often enough to bother altering, only during these night time excursions to the shrine when anonymity would be more useful than armor.

J'hazarr placed the glass bottle he'd been carrying on the altar and bowed his head. Not a drop of the potion remained. He had been very careful to rinse the bottle out with water and dump that into the well also. Morga placed her own bottle beside his.

“Dreamweaver, your faithful servants have done as you commanded,” Morga hissed.

“Yes,” replied a soft, jarringly sweet and feminine voice. “The dreamers wander my dark citadel. More are coming every hour. How fragile are my mortal playthings – two dead of fright already!” The room suddenly grew colder, the flames of the candles and the torch shrinking down and nearly flickering out. An itchy-crawly sensation shuddered across every inch of J'hazarr's skin whenever his chosen Prince spoke. His heartbeat quickened, terror and awe and anticipation all so tightly coiled around one another that he could not pick them apart.

“But mortal frailty is expected. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain; I grant my servants their reward.” A muted crack of thunder punctuated her words and ice-cold wind moved against J'hazarr's palms even though his hands were clasped; it felt like wind was forcing them apart. Black eyes wide with awe, he held his hands out before himself, watching violet magicka coil and twist into a ball cradled by his cupped hands. He could feel pure energy, pure magicka tingling up his arm and raising all his tiny hairs. At first his fingers felt nothing but cold, but then weight settled into his palms, something round and so perfectly smooth that it was slippery. The violet strands faded like dissipating smoke and left behind an orb of what appeared to be black glass.

_The Orb of Vaermina?_ J'hazarr could not breathe; the world around him dropped away and he was aware only of the black orb in his palms, of the solid weight of it, of the unnatural cold that would soon numb his fingers. He'd heard myths about the Orb, but no one really knew its purpose or if it even existed. Some tales claimed that it could spy on any place on Nirn. Others said that it allowed one to glimpse the future without being struck blind, unlike an elder scroll. Whatever that power might be, it now belonged to J'hazarr.

Morga's harsh laughter, amplified in echo, brought him back to the reality of a damp, stinking sewer. He looked up to see that she now stood and held aloft her gift from the Dreamweaver: a staff almost as tall as the Orc's own body, topped with a brass-plated skull that might have belonged to a ram, ridged horns twisting downward and sinister red eyes glowing from within the black depths of the eye sockets. _The Skull of Corruption._ J'hazarr grinned as he gained his feet, transferring the Orb to one hand.

They were unstoppable. Between their own combined talents and Vaermina's gifts, there was nothing in Tamriel that would be denied them.

“It's funny, isn't it?” J'hazarr asked, running a thumb over the slick surface of the Orb. His voice seemed very far away, his entire body light from adrenaline. The Orb felt like an extension of himself, but unlike a mortal-made enchantment this power was so incredibly vast that he could discern no limit. His own distorted reflection peered back at him from the glass. He continued, distantly, “The tool for scrying was given to the warrior, and the weapon to the scholar. Perhaps Vaermina meant to fortify our weaknesses, just as you and I fortify one another.”

Morga snorted. J'hazarr looked up as she tapped the butt of the staff against the ground. Something in her eyes made him immediately sick. She smiled apologetically and shook her head.

“My dear, _stupid_ J'hazarr,” she said with mock sweetness, tilting the head of the staff toward him. “How naive you are to think I would share this power with _you_.” Twin bolts of bright violet lightning streaked from the eyes of the skull. He felt the magicka strike him in the chest before he could react, a fizzy sensation that bubbled away from the point of impact and dissipated in an instant. His mouth gaped with unspoken questions, but the Khajiit reflexively threw up a hand to cast his shield. Light crackled in a shell around his body as a whirling spiral of violet magicka flowed up from the floor just a few paces in front of him. Morga circled around him and J'hazarr stood transfixed, staring in disbelief at the tight vortex of magicka that unfurled to reveal a humanoid figure before peeling back and then blowing across the floor like smoke.

Betrayal. Grief. Incomprehension. The emotions flashed through him in quick succession.

J'hazarr was staring at himself. A perfect copy from copper hair to booted feet. He wore the same robe with the same wet spots on the knees. His tattoos mirrored J'hazarr's perfectly. A shield of magicka crackled around the doppelganger and an identical copy of J'hazarr's steel knife was tucked into his cloth sash. There was one difference – the second Khajiit did not hold a duplicate of the Orb. The other J'hazarr's face twisted into a snarl of fury, but just as he raised his hand to cast, J'hazarr felt spellfire strike his back. He would have known immediately what had happened even if he had not seen the globe of green magicka lobbed past him at his copy. The magicka still roiled beneath his skin, but distant and inaccessible. _Silence_.

J'hazarr yanked his knife from its sheath just as his copy did they same. The Orb rolled from his hand as the copy lunged at him, still snarling with feral hatred. He heard the sharp crack of the Orb hitting stone, heard Morga's mocking laughter behind him. J'hazarr slashed at the clone's face but he caught J'hazarr's wrist without stopping, plowing into him and sending them both toppling down.

The next several seconds were a blur. J'hazarr tried to roll them both but the clone ended up on top and stabbed down at J'hazarr's face. The Khajiit jerked his head aside in time so the blade only grazed his cheek before he grabbed the other's arm. They grappled on the ground, each fighting to free their weapon hand, J'hazarr trying to kick the other man off of him and the copy trying to pin his legs down with his knees. The other J'hazarr's face was distorted with a bestial rage J'hazarr had never realized he was capable of, lips pulled back high over short fangs, laugh lines deepening with his flaring nostrils, pure hatred burning in his eyes.

Then the fireballs started.

J'hazarr screeched when the first blast of fire hit them. It didn't take; he was too damp, but the incredible heat scorched the right side of his face. J'hazarr could smell his own burnt hair. His grip on the other man weakened and the clone yanked his arm away. J'hazarr covered his face with his arm when the knife stabbed down again, this time glancing off and cutting his arm in a line of hot agony. J'hazarr threw his weight aside in a desperate attempt to throw the other man off when fire hit again, this time burning his back. The clone's skull smacked against the stone when they rolled and J'hazarr grabbed him by the hair to slam his head down again with his knife hand, holding the clone's wrist with his free hand.

“MORGA!” J'hazarr screamed. The clone was growling like a wild animal, screeching unintelligibly whenever he was slammed down. Morga peppered them with more silence spells and more fireballs, leaving horrible smoking burns behind wherever they struck. With J'hazarr's weight on the clone's chest, his legs were free to kick, and the clone finally succeeded in hitting his back with his knee so that J'hazarr pitched forward. He didn't let go of the clone's hair or his wrist. They tumbled together again, this time into the sewage channel.

J'hazarr gasped when he hit the frigid stream, releasing his attacker and inhaling filthy water. The channel was only chest deep, but every time he tried to stand the clone would tackle him, slash at him, forcing him to retaliate instead of climbing out. Blood had been gushing from the cut on his arm but now he felt only numbness there. The water churned turbulently, black with orange froth in Morga's torchlight, concealing the pink leaking from both bodies. Morga didn't bother wasting her magicka now, but watched them smugly from above, arms tucked into the sleeves of her robe with the staff in the crook of one arm.

“Morga, stop this!” J'hazarr gasped. A punch connected with the clone's cheek and knocked him back, but J'hazarr's fist was too numb to even feel it. The current of floodwater swept the clone's feet out from under him, burned and bloodied face finally swallowed up by the water. J'hazarr had to get out of the frigid water or that would kill him before his wounds could. He slogged through the fast-flowing torrent and grabbed the wall of the channel opposite Morga. He was heaving, desperate for air and trembling violently as he pulled himself out. He had one leg and one arm on dry ground when ice drove through his back. He gasped, not even a real scream, arching his back and raising up to yank himself away from the clone.

Being stabbed in the back didn't really hurt the way he thought it would. It did hurt, but not more than the burns or the cuts. J'hazarr was too numb. He rolled onto his side and heard more than saw the clone climbing out after him, his hanging hair a wet mass of tangles. The copy was gasping raggedly himself.

His own blood leaking from his back was painfully hot now. J'hazarr tried to lift his arm to touch the knife behind him but he did not have the strength. He let himself slump on the stone, wet and cold and slick with gods only knew what, staring across the channel at Morga. With the torch behind her, her expression was hidden in shadow but he could tell from the contour of her face that she was smiling.

“Wh–” Copper in his mouth, blood spilling past his lips. He'd been stabbed in the lung. J'hazarr coughed. The darkness was closing in around him. He could see only the light, nothing more than an orange pinprick in the black. He finally got the word out, a pathetic plea more than a question:

“Why?” Still he loved her. He could never stop loving her. He could not understand why this was happening.

J'hazarr's head jerked back. The clone was behind him, had grabbed him by the hair. He was vaguely aware of a dark shape moving in the periphery of his vision when the magicka within him rose to the surface, accessible once again now that Morga’s spell of silence had dissipated. That was a comfort. Magicka had accompanied him throughout his entire life; it would not abandon him even now, when nothing else made sense.

He never got to hear Morga's answer to his question. He was very numb, very tired. J'hazarr closed his eyes and, after the quick, sharp pain of having his head slammed down onto the floor, he knew nothing more.

  


# Chapter One

 

**3E 430**

**Balmora, Morrowind**

Two-Colors crept ahead of the other two up the narrow alley, big clawed feet soft and silent on the loose cobbles. Her foot-claws were always carefully filed down to keep them from ticking on hard surfaces. The dew-claw on the back of each ankle, a spur around two inches long, was still sharp.

Behind her came Calvus and Virronar. The odds were low that a Hlaalu guard would wander down this narrow, winding passage between homes in Balmora's working class Labor Town district, but both, like Two-Colors, went quietly out of habit. You never knew when someone who wanted to be in better odor with the guards was relaxing on their roof, even in an unseasonably cool autumn. The Imperial Calvus wasn't as quiet as he thought he was, lazy bastard, but at least Virronar could be depended on to do the work even if he was an asshole. The breeze that blew from them to her carried each familiar scent, not quite overpowering the mixed stink of piss and dirt from the alley walls.

Two-Colors was for the most part accustomed to the chill. She had probably been conceived in the Marsh, but she had been born in Vvardenfell. She could swim in cold water for hours and not go all slow and stupid. That was important because it was her reason for being here, her value to the Guild. Five feet two, maybe a hundred and ten pounds counting her fat tail, olive drab on top and white on her belly, Two-Colors wasn't much to look at as Argonians went. She had a wide jaw and a short, pointed muzzle and big yellow eyes, but her toothy grin put people more in mind of a serpent than anything else. Today she wore worn-out brown homespuns that were too big, crudely rolled up above her ankles. She wasn't going to ruin her better leathers on a job like this one. The belt was a frayed canvas piece of garbage, there only as a place to shove her lockpicks.

She was missing a couple of teeth on the left now from the last time she'd annoyed Habasi. Oh, Sugar-Lips hadn't done anything to her personally. She had people for that. You couldn't really blame Ra'zala for trying to get ahead. Hell, Two-Colors would've done something like it if it would've gained her any real advantage, but it wouldn't; Ra'zala was a Cathay-raht and built like a guar. Two-Colors was too small to be pushing people around, and that fact was a dull burn in her guts every day of her life. It wasn't fair, was what. If you were huge you could push people around all day long and not leave the kind of marks that would attract the Guild's attention, but you slit one stupid Breton's ears...

Two-Colors came to the manhole cover and waited for the other two to take up positions on either side of her, looking casually down the alley in both directions. A scruffy human in netch leather and a dark brown Khajiit with black stripes wearing very little – usually just a pair of trousers – did not inspire confidence in the viewer, but they might discourage any curious citizen from wandering this way. When they were mostly screening her from both directions Two-Colors hauled up the cover and pushed it aside. Her nostrils shrank shut in self-defense for a couple of seconds as the stench of used water made its way upward. She ought to be used to it by now, but she wasn't. After a heavy rain it was not as bad, which was why they were here this morning and not yesterday, but it was still bad.

“Little one should change her name to Swims-With-Shit,” murmured Virronar.

“Go fuck yourself,” Two-Colors growled at him, in a voice much too high-pitched to ever be threatening, and hopped into the hole. She was used to the long fall, stretching out her tail and toes to slide straight into the water with almost no splash. Breathing this stuff would kill you if you had to do it every day, she was sure; it was even worse than having to smell it from above; but at least her nostrils were mostly stunned after the first few seconds. Her muscular tail propelled her upstream as she sought the right runoff pipe. The paranoid old Altmer she was robbing didn't think anyone knew he had dug a privy in his floor, but they had noticed that he never left his house. He was gone on some Temple pilgrimage at the moment, not expected back for a couple of days yet.

It wasn't hard to find the right one. It was not round, for one thing, a weird irregular hole in the stone wall of the sewer with cracked and crazed edges from the pickaxe used to break through to the sewer. Two-Colors sped up, tail flailing, and propelled herself up out of the water with enough force to grab onto the edge and haul herself up. It didn't smell worse than the sewer. Arguably better, because it saw less use. She made her way up the privy easily enough, arms and legs braced against the walls, and then popped her head up out of the seat for a cautious look around. It was a wooden bench with a hole cut in it and a cylinder of wood stuck under it to connect it with the hole in the floor. Two-Colors snorted and shook herself as best she could before climbing out. She was in what looked like a downstairs closet, a wooden bar overhead that was obviously meant for hanging clothes. She crouched by the door as she let her nose adjust. There was no lock or keyhole; so she did not realize the house was inhabited until she heard someone humming from inside the room. Belatedly her still-stunned nostrils caught a whiff of Altmer, old, male.

_Godsdammit, those lousy motherfucking fetchers._

She was here now, she wasn't going to swim back empty-handed, and they knew it. Screwing over your brother or sister Thief was normally a punishable offense, but Habasi was already annoyed with her. She wasn't going to go bitching to the Guild head, either, and they also knew that.

Two-Colors flattened herself to the floor, applying one eye to the crack under it. She could see the old fart's dusty shoes walking about on the other side of the room, mostly with his back to her. All right, this could maybe work. She stood up slowly and began to ease the door open ever so carefully, slowly enough not to disturb the rustiest of hinges.

The old man was puttering around with some bottles and jars on a table: the smell of something acrid and chemical reached her nostrils, powerful enough to cover even her own current smell. That was good. She took a couple of slow breaths, watching him, and then slid silently out and closed the door very carefully behind her. She was only a couple of feet from the stairs. All she needed was for him to keep looking the other way for a couple of seconds and -

She was halfway up the stairs without a single sound. There was a trapdoor to the roof on the landing, but roofs were visible to neighbors. There wasn't even a real bedroom up here, just a biggish landing with an unmade bed – and unwashed for a some time, her nose said – a dresser, and a shelf.

It was under the mattress. It was amazing how many people thought that was a good hiding place. Two-Colors permitted herself a small sharp smile as she realized the size of the bag, probably big enough to hold a couple of thousand drakes – even split three ways, not a bad haul for an hour's work. She eased it out, holding it tight around the neck to keep the coins from shifting as much as possible, and crept back to the stairs to listen. The old man was still busy, happily unaware that someone was taking what he had no doubt worked years to save. Two-Colors felt no guilt. Whatever he'd done to get it, he hadn't swum through shit.

Ten minutes later she was clambering up the ladder to a different manhole cover. She rapped on it from beneath with her knuckles, then waited for it to be hauled aside from above. It was too heavy for her to have budged it on her own. She slapped the bag onto the ground first and crawled out, ignoring Virronar's ears flattening backward as he caught a whiff of her.

“You assholes,” she growled as Calvus shoved the cover back. “You said he was going to be gone.”

“And he was. I don't for a second believe he was there,” Calvus said, smirking. “You're just angling for a bigger cut.”

“You knew he was going to be there,” Two-Colors insisted, shaking herself as best she could.

“What if he did?” said Virronar mildly, flicking an ear forward. “What is the little one going to do? She thinks she can take someone twice her weight and a foot taller? She should not be so ambitious. Take her four hundred drakes and call it good.”

“Four hundred!? Six hundred and sixty!” Two-Colors stiffened, hand going to a dagger that was not currently there. That just made her angrier.

“Four hundred,” Calvus said. “It's a nice round – _fuck_!”

A hundred and ten pounds is not heavy for an adult Argonian, but it is heavy enough to knock a grown man flat when it hits him feet-first in the chest from a standing leap. Calvus hit the floor of the alley on his back, which was exactly what Two-Colors had intended. She did not intend for him to hit his head on the cobblestones so hard that she heard the wet sklush of his skull breaking.

He still looked surprised as he made a couple of awful little noises down in his throat. Then all sound ceased. Two-Colors rolled to her feet, backing away as she looked up at Virronar. “That wasn't what I meant to do!”

“She killed him,” the Khajiit realized, staring down at Calvus's boggle-eyed corpse. His head snapped around toward Two-Colors, ears flat. “Little fool. You are finished now, done. Run while you can, before Habasi finds you.”

Two-Colors did not argue. Two-Colors ran.

First she threw up, around the first quiet corner she came to. Then she spent the next couple of days hiding, lurking in alleys, slinking into the darkest tables of the clubs where other thieves went the least. She wore her netch leathers all the time, and her dagger, for all the good that was likely to do. The smell washed off, but the taint remained. To be thrown out of the Guild was bad enough; to await retribution was worst of all. There was no way they would just let this go. She thought about leaving town, but to go where? She hadn't been outside Balmora since she was ten.

And then she had a lucky break. A very small one. But it was better than nothing.

She went to the Eight Plates to eat dinner, ordering quietly at the bar, but as she was turning to go look for a shadowed table the bartender said, “I have a packet for you. At least, I assume it's for you. We don't get a lot of Betmer that look exactly like you in here.” She was a worn-looking Dunmer who wore her dark hair in a huge bun behind her head, bound with a rusty metal ring clamped around the base. Her purple velvet shirt had seen some hard wear.

_Just what the hells is that supposed to mean?_ Two-Colors bit her tongue before she said it.

“All right, give it here,” she said. She took the little oilskin package back to her table to open it, heart thumping. It contained a small purse that was just about heavy enough to hold six hundred drakes, and an unsigned note in a hand that she was almost certain belonged to Sugar-Lips Habasi.

_Toad has been very lucky. Toad is expelled from the Guild for killing a guildmate, but as it happens, guildmate has been caught very naughtily taking more than his share. So perhaps this one time the worthless little Toad has done a favor for her very tolerant friend. It is possible she may have uses for the little one yet._

_On the other side of note is map to daedric place called Nashazurni. Inside Toad finds many loud, stupid cultists and a very shiny set of bracers. Bring bracers to her friend at the Club and all is forgiven. If bracers are not found, it is safer for Toad that she takes up residence in a safer climate, such as the bottom of the sea._

_She did earn her fair share on her last job. Here it is, so that she does not starve on her way. Is long walk. Never let her say her long-suffering friend did not do her very best for the little Toad._

Two-Colors squinted, staring down at the map. It led what looked like twenty miles north of Balmora, a very long walk indeed through the dirt and weeds. At the end of it was a huge and dark and dangerous place of stone, probably contaminated with the dark energies of the House of Troubles, full of Dunmer who were crazed with religious fervor and probably well-armed.

Still, what choice did she have?

Was it worse than swimming in the sewer, really?

And that was how, two days later, Two-Colors found herself lying on her belly on a small promontory overlooking the daedric ruin of Nashazurni, hands on the straps of her new knapsack. The world smelled wrong, full of strange herbal and animal odors, lacking the familiar smells of hot clay and baking bread and unwashed bodies.

She had been chased by a wild guar and killed two different kwama larva getting here (admittedly they had been delicious). On the upside, the dirt tracks were easier on her footpads than she had expected. Sleeping under a comberry bush wasn't so bad compared to huddling up next to a trash basket on the hard cobbles. You could do worse.

Below her stretched the ruin. It seemed to go on for miles, mottled hulks of purple stone in strange archways and asymmetrical blocky towers casting strange shadows in the gathering sunset. It was raining a little, but that wasn't apt to bother her. The lowest points of the ruin seemed to be half-flooded, the water gleaming like steel in the fading light, but that was even better. She could not see a living soul from her current post. The distant scent of Dunmer carried to her nostrils as the wind changed, fresh enough to tell her it was a young man, but she could not yet tell where he was. Probably they had posted at least a couple of sentries. It should be easy enough to avoid them. Dunmer were deaf to anything but their own boasting voices and their nostrils stunned to anything but the stink of their bitter liquors.

Ahead of her was a big archway, but there were many smaller arches and passages all around. She would enter by the narrow way to the left, between two fallen blocks, a space too narrow to comfortably admit anyone much larger.

Two-Colors crept backward and rose to make her way softly down the hill under the shadow of the trees, a ghost in the twilight.

 


	2. Chapter 2

# Chapter Two

 

An armored figure stalked through the twisting maze of waterlogged paths, making no real effort to conceal his smacking steps. The water he trod upon rippled under his feet, but he did not sink below the surface.

He was a terribly plain figure. In place of fluting, his steel armor was ornamented instead with scratches, pockmarks, rusty divots. The lames of his rounded sabatons and the articulated fingers of his gauntlets were rustiest of all. It was obvious he did not take much care cleaning the smaller and hard to reach bits, although the broader pieces of plate were largely rust-free. He wore a closed helmet with a pointy, jutting visor topped with a thin crest. He blinked and blew in annoyance when the occasional gnat departed from the cloud to fly into his eye slit. Others plinked off his helm.

J'hazarr loathed the Bitter Coast. The bugs weren't so bad while armored, but the air was humid and sticky. The crooked walls of the Daedric ruin leaned toward him from either side. The jagged top of the Eastern wall glowed orange as the sun set; the purple stone of the Western wall was nearly black in shadow.

Part of the wall had crumbled, a big block of stone obscuring his view, and when J'hazarr leaned around it he could see steps rising out from the water some distance ahead. They lead up to a stone gazebo. It was completely covered with moss and vines, the ribcage of a dead behemoth reclaimed by nature. An armored mer was standing inside. He wore steel also, but it looked like he'd pieced his set together from different suits, and not all of them fit correctly. His helm was an open-faced variety and the Dunmer was waving at the swarm of bugs and mumbling angrily under his breath. He looked up when he heard J'hazarr's footsteps.

J'hazarr broke into a sprint across the water. He was already holding a rust-flecked steel morning star in his hand.

“Intruder!” The Dunmer shouted, drawing his sword, and as J'hazarr climbed the steps he saw a flash of olive color between the pillars of the gazebo as something moved about down below, small and quick. Clannfear, probably. The Dunmer swung at him in a panicked, obviously unskilled way. J'hazarr slapped the sword down with his left arm – the blade clattered against his armor with jarring force – and slammed his morning star into the mer's helm. At 5'11, the Khajiit had several inches on the Dunmer, and J'hazarr realized as the mer crumpled that he was really no more than a boy.

The mer rolled onto his back, moaning, mitten-style gauntlets clinking as his fists spasmed open and shut. He was too stunned to think about protecting his face. J'hazarr picked up the mer’s sword and rested it against his left shoulder as he turned away to face the clannfear or whoever else might have heard the cry of warning.

“Get out of here,” he said without emotion. “If I see you again I'll kill you.” He spoke Common perfectly, no trace of any accent, in a baritone voice which lacked the volume possessed by many male Khajiit.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors moved from deep shadow to deep shadow, keeping her head down and her nostrils open. Unless she was stupid enough to flash a white palm or sole, she was very hard to see. She moved slowly, but not steadily, just intermittently enough that there was no pattern to attract the eye. Her oiled netch leather trousers and cuirass made no slightest creak, and the mottled dark browns blended with most things.

The water was cool around her ankles, but here on the Bitter Coast, twenty miles from Balmora, it was still warmer than she had been forced to accept previously. It was a little rank with the larva of insects and probably some kind of plants growing in it, but it beat the hell out of sewer water. She wasn't as thrilled with having to hike miles through a narrow passage behind the Temple and all the way out to the swamp with the godsdamn mountains looming up to right and left – that's what they had to be, mountains, big damn tall rocky things – but at least she was inedible to the bugs. Even if her Jel was frankly offensive to most Marsh-born, she was still an Argonian.

Down among the stones nothing smelled quite right. The stones themselves had some peculiar sharp undertone that made her dew-claws lift away from her ankles. It was almost like something alive. She thought that she could feel the place breathing around her, as if the stones were watching.

“Intruder!”

Two-Colors flattened herself, hand darting to her dagger, but there was no way the Dunmer look-out could possibly see her. She couldn't even see him yet. The passage she had chosen opened into a broader aisle, and ahead and to her right was a round-domed pillared platform, a gazebo or something, casting a heavy shadow over everything nearby. She could dimly make out something up there, but she wasn't sure what.

The wind changed again.

_Dunmer, sweat, fear. Khajiit – not one of the most catlike subraces, either, hot fur had a specific smell and there was very little of it. The overwhelming metallic bite of steel, so much steel. Heavy armor. Something scaly that was not Argonian, that was not of this plane._

She listened to the flat deep voice that must belong to the Khajiit – older, unexcited – but from here she could not make out the words. He was not shouting.

Who was this now? Some do-gooder from the Imperial Cult out to cleanse the pagans? A Khajiit would never attain much rank in the Temple if they were let in at all. Maybe it was just another cultist, sneaking up to reprimand the sentry for slacking off. That was more discipline than she expected from a bunch of daedra-worshippers, but you never knew. Maybe it was a shrine to Malacath. A lot of Orcs had hard-ons for military everydamnthing. Well, whatever scaly thing was after him ought to distract him for a little bit, at least.

She was swearing a lot to herself. She should probably be paying more attention to focusing on what she was doing and less on being angry so that she would not be afraid. She breathed deeply, squatting in the shadow of a pillar, until her heart beat slower. Plenty of time. No hurry at all. She crept onward, circumventing the gazebo as she looked for the entrance. There would only be one. She remembered being told daedric ruins only ever had one door, weird and rounded and not-quite-right looking like everything in these old places. It wouldn't necessarily be in a logical place.

It wasn't in a logical place at all. It was halfway round the base of the gazebo, placed without fanfare in the middle of a stone slab, which should be quite impossible for any mason to accomplish. She pressed ears and nose to the cracks around the weird ovoid and heard only distant humming, like someone chanting or singing.

 _No point in wasting time._ Two-Colors put a clawed hand on the weird knob in the middle and pushed. The ovoid slid open to one side instead of swinging like a normal door, and she slid inside and shut it again.

She was on a dark landing, above a broad stair. At the bottom it was still dark. It smelled even more strange and wrong in here, incense that smelled a little like cinnamon and a little like rancid scuttle and a little like burning blood, but she could pick out the individual scents of three people below her and none of them was near the stairwell. Two-Colors pressed herself low and crept down on all fours, head down, one foot and one hand up on the wall.

Upon reaching the bottom, she whisked around the lower corner of the stairs and into the shadow of a vase that was large enough to hold her plus two more the same size. It seemed to be made of the same stuff as the walls. Up close it smelled like something else, blood and fire and spice, something she had never scented before. It almost drowned the scent of two Dunmer and a Nord, although in Two-Colors' opinion nothing could overwhelm the smell of Nord: sweat, hair grease, steel plate, the faint special overlay of gold. Two-Colors peeked slowly around the vase, down at the bottom where the shadow covered her head.

The cavernous underbelly of the ruin was so vast that the ceiling was lost to the shadows. Pinpricks of flickering light stood out in the perimeter of the room, illuminating small circles of slick purple stone cut with strange symbols. In the very center of the room steps lead up to a broad altar from which rose a statue. The statue was impossibly tall, four-armed, and carried a massive battleaxe. Fires dancing in twin braziers at its base lit a ghoulish, snarling face from below while smoke poured from stone censers above. They hung from the ceiling on long chains and were shaped like thorny mace heads.

 _Dagon. That's a statue of Dagon._ Her heart jumped into her throat again; but what had she been expecting? A bunch of drunken Sanguinites too stupid to know which way was up?

_That would've been nice, yeah._

"Ulfgar, are you sure you'll be promoted soon? We need a Knight Errant or higher." The soft voice belonged to a Dunmer woman in a faded blue robe. A thin braid of red hair lay across her shoulder.

"Yes, yes, it'll happen soon, Deros," came a bolder male voice with a hint of accent. He was a Nord in Legionnaire's plate, pauldrons and cuirass scrawled with gold filigree. That did not particularly surprise Two-Colors, whose faith in the integrity of guards and soldiers was on par with her faith in her fellow Thieves. He was a very tall, thick man with a steel longsword on his hip and a dirty-blonde beard.

Another Dunmer, a man in netch leather, was sitting on the top step to the shrine with a crossbow over his lap. Rubies and emeralds glinted on a platter behind him, reflecting the firelight. The glitter of jewels drew her eyes magnetically, irresistible as the prettiest whore in the brothel to a lonely sailor. It was with an effort that she dragged her gaze away. A wooden chest was pushed up against the left side of the altar.

"I can't give you the bracers until then, you know this," the woman continued. She seemed impatient.

"If something bad were to happen to Marja, my promotion would be –"

"No," the Dunmer snapped. "That's too obvious. You'll gain your rank through hard work like the rest of us."

They seemed engrossed in their conversation, and the shadows around the edges of the room were heavy. She could probably get to the storage chest without being noticed. It wasn't as if these stupid fetchers were going to hear her coming. She snorted in silent derision at that thought and began her deceptively fast crawl around the edge of the room, toward the chest: hand to wall, hand to floor, foot to wall, foot to floor, tail pressed to the wall behind her so that its movement would not draw the eye.

“Then what do you want me to do?” the one who was apparently Ulfgar demanded when she was nearly halfway there.

“Did you hear what I just said? You work for it. Take on extra duties if it pleases your commander. Don't miss any shifts being a drunken idiot. It's not that hard.” Deros said. The man with the crossbow sighed boredly and tapped his fingers on the step.

“She's right,” he said in the typical graveled voice of a Dunmer. “Cut back on your drinking now, enjoy paradise for eternity. It's worth it.”

As the Dunmer explained the obvious, Two-Colors busily picked the lock on the chest, ear held close to the hole to listen for the tumblers clicking as she gently probed it with the pick. The bulk of the platform shielded her from the Nord's view, and the other two were facing away. There was no smell of poison or fizzle of magicka, only wood and iron. She was a mage about at the same level rocks were, but she had been near magicka traps often enough to get a feel for when one was right in front of her nose. The click of the tumblers was quiet enough not to be detected from further than a couple of feet if you did it right. You got really motivated to learn if you might not get to eat otherwise.

“I'm not a drunk,” the Nord was saying. He sounded angry. “My service to Dagon has never wavered.”

At last she felt it go sweet. Two-Colors lifted the lid very slowly, wary of creaking hinges. Inside was a copy of Darkest Darkness, another copy of Spirit of the Daedra – everybody had that, it was worthless – a couple of potion bottles whose contents she could not identify without opening them to smell, and a pair of bracers. They gleamed sullenly in the dark, the black metal streaked with red, and that spice-blood-fire smell was even stronger here. A chill ran down Two-Colors' spine as she realized what she was looking at.

_Fuck me running. These are daedric._

She had to respect Habasi's logic. If she didn't come back, Habasi was rid of an annoyance. If she did, Habasi gained something very valuable at virtually no cost – for whatever she paid Two-Colors for this trip, it wouldn't even compare to what she could get for a pair of daedric bracers. Daedric armor. Good gods. A high Telvanni lord would kill to possess it.

She could keep them.

_And fence them where? A Guild fence would take one look at these and peach on you in a snap. A Telvanni wizard would fry you with a lightning bolt and just take them. Not worth trying._

 

* * *

 

Some distance above the dark chamber, a clannfear came splashing around the base of the gazebo. It paused at the bottom of the steps with one three-taloned hand in the water to steady itself and opened its beakish maw to screech at the intruder. J'hazarr flung the sword out at it. The clannfear craned its head back to watch the sword sail over its head, beady little eyes blinking stupidly. Its head snapped forward again at the sound of the Khajiit's boots on the stone; he was already halfway down the stairs. When his foot hit the water again without sinking in, the clannfear jinked sideways before J’hazarr could land a hit across its skull.

The clannfear swiped at J'hazarr's leg left, claws glancing ineffectively from the plate. Still, the force was enough to almost knock him back. He shifted his weight to his right leg, planted against the water – it felt like standing on glass, but the ripples provided traction – and twisted as he swung the mace at the clannfear's head. It ducked out of the way again and snapped at his wrist, beak scraping against steel.

Then J'hazarr noticed the sunken gully to the side of the path. The wall there had sunk also – probably a lower chamber had collapsed and the earth on top of it had caved in along with the ceiling. He skirted around the clannfear and ran for it. Naturally, the daedra pursued, splashing after him through the shallow water, not paying attention to where it was running. When he was over the drop off J'hazarr spun, left hand clenching into a fist and twisting in a half-turn. Then his fingers opened and a burst of magicka hit the clannfear in its face just as it took its first step over the ledge. It screeched its surprise as its big head crashed into the water, throwing up spray. J'hazarr stood over the clannfear as it sank and thrashed. Its instinct was to try to swim up, not to run along the ground until it came to shallow water, but thanks to the burden he'd cast on it the clannfear was too heavy to swim. He waited until it finally figured out it could crawl along the bottom to escape the dip. When its head surged up out of the water, water pouring from its bony crest like so many little waterfalls, he bludgeoned it back down again.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

When the daedra finally stopped moving, J'hazarr sniffed and trotted back over to the gazebo to look for the door. He found it quickly and pushed at the knob, waiting patiently for it to slide fully open before descending the dark stairwell.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors reached into the chest, deftly extracted the bracers – they were unsurprisingly heavy – and shut it, grinning. She blended extremely well into the shadows, but her teeth were pale and slick and bright; and then she heard a firm footstep and looked up to see an armored man at the base of the stairs. And there she was, squatting by the chest, one arm holding the bracers cradled against her chest. She couldn’t see his eyes for the helm he wore, but he seemed to be looking directly at her.

_Son of a bitch._

The three cultists heard him at the same time the Argonian turned around. Because they were all clustered together, there hadn't been any point in attempting to pick them off one by one. The Dunmer woman was last to turn and look at him after noticing the eyes of her companions’ snapping up to his. The Khajiit's eyes landed on the gleaming black bracers in the Argonian's hands. _The Fists of Dagon's Might._

J'hazarr's toes flexed in his boots. A streamer of magicka curled in a helix around his legs. The muscles of his thighs and calves bulged under his armor and J'hazarr launched himself at the Argonian, sailing effortlessly across several feet of slimy stone with a booted foot outstretched. The man with the crossbow was standing and raising his weapon. The woman had thrown up her hand. The Nord's mouth popped open in an “o” as he reached for his sidearm. J'hazarr squeezed his fist around the hilt of his morning star and magicka flashed in his hand, shimmering along his fist and up his arm and then dissipating. In daylight it wouldn't have been noticeable. In the dark of the shrine it lit him weakly, briefly, with pink light.

Two-Colors didn't expect him to leap at her first and she certainly didn't expect him to jump so far or so fast. A steel boot slammed into her chest, knocking her backward, and she dropped the heavy bracers in order to tuck and roll. She felt it bruise, gasping as she came up onto all ten fingers and the tips of her toes, but nothing felt broken.

The Khajiit bounced off her chest and landed on both feet with a clatter. He didn't have time to scoop up the bracers before he whirled to face the Nord running at him, drawing his longsword as he cursed. A crossbow bolt belatedly zinged past where J'hazarr had been a full second ago as the Nord stabbed at the seam of the Khajiit's cuirass. It was a blow of little finesse, but with considerable power behind it; if he couldn't cut the cuirass off in the first hit he expected a long slogging fight trying to batter down the stranger's armor with a steel longsword.

Electricity streaked from the woman's hands and crackled across his armor, but J'hazarr didn't burn. The lightning met with the absorption spell he had cast, an invisible veneer of magicka on his armor. It sunk through steel, cloth, and then flesh, leaving its elemental form and converting to pure magicka again. Some of the energy was lost in the transaction, but J'hazarr felt a small surge of power trickle in. Enough that he could cast another spell if he needed to.

Then the Nord's sword hit his side, banging against the bottom buckle and sliding off the curve of his breastplate. It sounded like something broke, but there was still one buckle on that side and two on the other holding his armor together.

It felt like being punched in the ribs. J'hazarr let his weight shift back and caught himself with one foot rather than trying to withstand the power of the blow. Then he swung the morning star up, underhand, trying to bash the Nord in the jaw.

“Who is that!” screeched the robed woman, apparently having noticed the little thief after her spell lit the cavern.

 _Good,_ J'hazarr thought. _Take care of the Argonian for me._ A second bolt impacted his pauldron, jerking his torso back. The wooden bolt snapped and the iron head went whirling up into the dark.

Two-Colors coughed, gasping air back into her lungs, listening to her own blood rushing through her ear-patches. The stink of iron and rust filled her nostrils. The two men were still fighting, a blur of big heavy bodies and the dull gleam of steel. She hopped back onto her feet and backed up toward the wall, and then she caught movement from the corner of her eye and dove and rolled to her left just in time for a lightning bolt to kiss the wall behind her. She dove and slid back toward the bracers, interposing the two men between her and the caster. She could hear the Dunmer's shriek of impotent fury as she grabbed for the daedric pieces again. It would've been smarter to run, but where could she run from Sugar-Lips Habasi?

The morning star slammed into the Nord's jaw from beneath, snapping his head back and burying the long spikes in his jaw and throat. Blood spurted around the points. His scream was high-pitched and awful, though he could not now open his mouth. He flailed with the sword wildly, clashing at the Ohmes-raht's cuirass with berserk strength.

The sword clanged down on J'hazarr's helm, deafeningly loud and jarring. He yanked his morning star away and staggered back. Blood jetted out and splashed against his cuirass, his helm. Then he beat away another wild slash with his mace, but the Nord was stronger and the blow knocked J'hazarr's weapon hand down. He risked a kick at the other man's armored groin. _Fall down and bleed to death, thanks._

The mage had circled around behind him and J'hazarr whirled out of the way just as a third ball of lightning whizzed over his shoulder and struck the Nord directly. His intention had been to prevent himself getting struck with a bolt again. What happened instead was that a blinding white light enveloped the Nord, cutting off his screams. He fell over backward and crashed against the floor, gurgling and twitching while smoke that stank of burnt flesh rose from his body. The poor bastard was still alive, the wounds on neck and throat cauterized by his own melting flesh. Then a bolt hit J'hazarr square on the helm, right above his visor. He spun around and staggered sideways, then fell down on his ass with a loud clack. The bolt had left a massive dent.

_Stench of blood and burning, sweat and panic, mingling with the alien dizzying smell of daedra._

Two-Colors succeeded in gathering up the bracers, but she had only gotten a couple of steps past the ghastly thing happening on her left before a crossbow bolt buried itself in her single left pauldron. She was momentarily staggered, swearing under her breath: “ _Xuth!_ ”

She glanced back and saw the Dunmer on the platform hurriedly winding his crossbow again. She'd never make it all the way to the door, not with him and the mage both ready to defend their god's artifact to the death and, more importantly, both able to throw things at Two-Colors. The Argonian reluctantly swooped down to lay the bracers on the floor and took a running jump toward the dais, then a forward handspring, legs and tail a whirling blur. Another bolt shot through the space she had just occupied, too slow, and as her feet hit the ground her right hand came up with her dagger.

She had taken a life before. On purpose, even, at least the one time. It wasn't so bad when it wasn't a stupid fucking accident, when she knew it was coming, when she knew what she had to do. The Dunmer was just tossing the crossbow to reach for a tanto on his belt when Two-Colors stabbed him in the right eyeball. When you were small, when you were weak, when you knew it, you couldn't depend on the strength of your arm to get steel through netch leather. She buried the dagger to the hilt, gritting her teeth, and tried not to hear the escaping rattle of his last breath. She knew to hold her breath against the sudden stink of violent death.

She did not look into his other eye as she braced her foot against his chest to work the dagger loose from his eye socket. His body was between her and the mage, who was now trying to decide whether to turn and fry Two-Colors or try and finish off the Ohmes-raht, who was now sitting stunned on the ground with a big dent in his helmet.

“Serves ya right,” Two-Colors hissed at him, and slashed at the Dunmer with her dagger. Drops of blood flew from the blade, but she'd only scratched her, catching mostly the fabric of her collar. Two-Colors didn't wait to see, she just dropped to one knee to vault off the platform, hacking blindly at the woman's legs as she went. She and the Khajiit could have each other. The bracers were still there, gleaming seductively in the deep shadow.

Deros tried to jump back from the slashing Argonian, not quick enough to prevent the knife drawing a shallow cut across her leg. She watched the thief run for the bracers, but she gritted her teeth and whirled angrily around to drop to one knee by Ulfgar's side. She didn't have magicka left for her powerful lightning spell, and anything less would be an utter waste if it didn't kill the target. The Nord was her only real hope. He grunted as blue light poured from the Dunmer's hands and sank into his body, charred skin slowly softening and turning a healthy pink.

For J'hazarr, the world was spinning and pain throbbed in his skull with every beat of his heart. Finally he clambered up to his feet and scooped his weapon off the ground as an afterthought.

“Live, you damned stupid fetcher!” the Dunmer was saying. J'hazarr staggered over to her. She turned, arm upraised to protect her face, the other reaching for a knife in her belt. J'hazarr slammed the morning star down, driving spikes through her arm.

Two-Colors heard the Dunmer’s scream behind her as she grabbed up the heavy bracers, knapsack bouncing slightly on her back as it had been all evening, light and ignored. She twitched at the sound, but did not turn around. Someone was dying and it wasn't her, that was all that mattered. She protectively shut her nostrils again as she turned to run. The bracers slowed her down. They were heavy. If she could just get outside she could stuff them in a sack. With the glow hidden the bastard in the armor would never find her, even in the dark. She wasn't bleeding. Her heart thundered as she sprinted for the stairs and the door. The open floor seemed to go on forever.

J’hazarr pulled back his arm and beat down on the mage again, this time catching her skull. There was a very loud crack and she dropped like a sack of saltrice. Blood seeped from the punctures on her face while a larger stain of blood spread out on her hair where her skull had split. Her mouth was open in an unfinished scream, her eyes wide open as if she were surprised to be dead. J'hazarr noted that she was probably in her early 40s, very smooth-skinned and pretty. She didn't look like a cultist at all.

Then the Nord battered J'hazarr's waist with his sword as he pulled himself up to a seated position – it had never left his hand when he fell, probably because his hands tightened around it when he was electrocuted – forcing J'hazarr back a step. He held his mace out to block the next swing.

The Nord hauled himself up to one knee, gritting his bloody teeth. His chin and beard and gorget were soaked with it. At the moment he felt no pain, only rage. He roared inarticulate fury as he flailed the longsword at the source of all his torments.

The Nord was strong but he was flailing stupidly. J'hazarr could cast absorb health as a touch or a ranged spell, but ranged spent more magicka, magicka he did not currently have. After suffering many bangs against his cuirass and gorget, J'hazarr finally trapped the sword in his armpit. He tried to beat the Nord across the skull with his morning star but the man actually headbutted his chest, and J'hazarr's weapon glanced off the man's armored back instead.

 _That's about enough of this._ J'hazarr grasped the Nord's bicep with his left hand and let the magicka go, felt it leach out of his skin and across two sets of armor before he lost it entirely. The pain in his skull receded and the world grew clearer. The Nord roared again as he realized what was happening and tried to yank away, bashing at J'hazarr with his free hand.

A faint scrape sounded from the top of the stairwell as a door slid open, too distant for any of the combatants below to hear. The young Dunmer sentry in mismatched steel stood silhouetted against the waning red light of dusk, his sword in hand.

Two-Colors skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairwell, teeth bared in fear and frustration. Swearing would not help. Instead she whirled away to one side, laying down the bracers again to draw her dagger. What was she going to do to an armored mer, warned, with a sword in his hand? Not very damn much, was what. A helmet made it considerably harder to achieve that eye shot that she basically had to have. She could try for the cuirass seam, but she'd seen just how much that could go wrong when you were up against someone fast, strong, and experienced. She had to be lucky every hit. He'd only got to be lucky once. Even a reasonably strong Dunmer could break one of her arms in one blow with basically any weapon. Two-Colors backed away toward the corner. With any luck he'd try and engage the terrifying bastard in the rusty plate, who had no business being anywhere near that hard to kill when he took completely shitty care of his equipment. Her chest ached and she felt sick to her stomach, fighting down the urge to throw up, curl up and just not move for an hour. Not here. Not now. Later. Later, when she had the bracers and was far away from here.

She needed to save up for some poison. Even a cheap health drain would give her a little more edge! She'd never thought she'd be up against a room full of godsdamned cultists and a mace-wielding madman who could cast spells!

As she heard the Dunmer come down the stairs she wedged herself into the corner and froze in place, head down, holding the knife down by her leg to hide any possible gleam. She blacked the blade with boot-polish to keep it from being too shiny, but blood had taken some of that away.

The Nord was still flailing uselessly at the Khajiit, but he was growing weaker every instant. It wasn't long before he couldn't hold up his head, let alone his arm. He crumpled onto his side, furious growls trailing away into a weak mewl of pain and protest.

J’hazarr was out of magicka, but that was fine. The Khajiit grinned behind his helm and threw the Nord's limp arm away from himself. He watched the body flop lifelessly onto its side, sword falling out of his grip and sliding across the floor. He was just about to mentally congratulate himself when he heard boots pounding toward him from behind.

J'hazarr spun. There was another? _Oh_ , he realized with a surge of annoyance. _The kid from before._ He'd given the idiot his life and the boy was just throwing it away. J'hazarr easily blocked a blow meant to jerk his weapon arm down. The sword had the better reach and clanged against the inside of his elbow anyway. The youth kicked his leg at the same time, but J'hazarr's feet were braced apart and he didn't fall back. The mer tried to hit him several more times, but J'hazarr blocked every strike. Those that landed on his armor glanced away without delivering their full force. When the mer tried to kick him again J'hazarr was ready for it: he caught the Dunmer's boot in his gauntleted palm and shoved. The boy yelped and went down on his ass, plate clattering, and immediately raised his sword to guard his face. J'hazarr clubbed his right hand instead, hoping to smash his fingers inside his gauntlets.

The Dunmer grunted in pain. The sword in front of his face wavered to the side. J'hazarr smashed the morning star down again. The Dunmer tried to hit him, to drive him back, but from the ground he wasn't able to put any real power into his swings. J'hazarr's senses were barely sharper than any other mer's but the boy stank of terror. He was genuinely surprised that he didn't smell piss.

J’hazarr yanked the sword aside with one hand. The boy cowered and raised his hand over his head.

“Please, Serjo, don't!” The morning star landed on his arm and battered it aside. The Dunmer tried to kick his feet out from under him so J'hazarr just dropped to his knees. His poleyns banged into the mer’s cuirass, knocking him back. J’hazarr ended up stradling the boy’s chest.  J’hazarr held down the mer's sword until he released it himself, and then their arms clashed together as each tried to knock the other away. He rained blows on the cultist's other arm and head while the mer screamed at him to stop. It was a shrill, desperate sound higher than any woman's voice. Eventually his entire ill-fitting helmet just slipped off with his thrashing and after one good smack the body below him slackened. The arms continued to twitch against the stone and the mer gasped raggedly a final time before J'hazarr buried the spikes of his morning star so deeply into his brains that one eye popped out and the head lifted briefly off the ground when he pulled the mace free.

“I warned you,” J'hazarr said tiredly, letting the head of the mace drop to the floor. He still held the hilt. A pool of blood spread rapidly from the Dunmer's head. His temple was all lumpy where the skull had cracked and then pulled apart when the spikes were lifted up. J'hazarr settled his weight back, hand on his thigh and looked up toward the stairwell, as casually as if he'd seated himself down on a cushion. It was so dark, but at least the fires were behind him.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors started to move back toward the stairwell and the bracers, squat-walking on her tiptoes, tail held out behind her for balance. She wasn't going to let go of the knife until she had them in reach this time. She felt no real pity for the Dunmer. He was a cultist of Mehrunes Dagon. He probably would have killed her without a second thought, maybe without a need for a reason.

She was starting to get used to all the screaming, Two-Colors thought. She could tune it out. Think about something else. Think about the stairs, just a couple of yards away. Think about the bracers, their red recessed details glowing gently in the dark in front of her.

Think about the sudden total silence.

Two-Colors turned her head slowly, heart pounding in her throat. The Khajiit was still alive, of course; and now he was looking this way. Her nostrils dilated to take in the stink of more death, more blood. She sped up to snatch at the bracers, hard to see still, but visible as a moving flash of occasional eggshell-colored wrist or throat. She might still make it. He must be tired. He might be slow.

_This big evil bastard is not going to stop me, damn his eyes._

“I'd stop if I were you,” J'hazarr called after her, grunting as he climbed up to his feet. He stepped over the corpse and strode toward her. His arm ached slightly from all the pounding and being drained of magicka was a similar sensation to being tired, but he was physically in very good condition after draining the Nord's health. Even if he hadn't been able to sense the void of her aura he knew she was no mage.

“ _Xet sa-akt_ ,” she snarled, _fuck yourself dead,_ and grabbed the bracers, one in each hand, and started up the stairs as fast as she could go. It wasn't as fast as she would have liked. They were still heavy and her chest still hurt.

J'hazarr thundered after her, slipping the morning star into its loop of leather that served as its holster on his belt. It was very tight and kept the head against his waist. When he was close enough his armored fist closed around her tail about midway up. Immediately Two-Colors twisted in place, bracing one hand and foot against the steps as she lashed out at his face with the dew-claw on the other ankle. Blind him in one eye and she might get away. Break his nose, knock him back! Anything to get away!

“Urf,” he grunted, jerking his head back, hands sliding down the length of her tail. Her dew claw scraped inside the visor slit and cut the top of his nose, far too close to his eyes for comfort. Left hand still holding the thinner end of her tail, he struck at her jaw with the flat of his palm. The armored gauntlet hit her in the jaw hinge and knocked her sideways, explosion of pain and sudden nausea, and then her head bounced against the unforgiving stone of the stairs and everything blinked out. The Argonian went limp, eyes rolling up and shut, and the small body slumped over the stairs as both gauntlets rattled down toward the Ohmes-raht.

“Aw, shit,” the Khajiit said. He released her and stood back to watch the Argonian slide down a bit before her body finally came to rest on the steps. He was pretty sure she wasn't one of the cultists. She'd been robbing them and she had killed the one with the crossbow. He stood with his hands on his hips for a minute, looking from bracers to lizard and back again. Then he bent down to pick up the bracers and stepped over her body on his way up the stairs. He was convinced he could feel the evil of the bracers even through his gloves when his fingers touched them, but of course it was all in his mind. They exuded power as any strong enchantment would, that was all. But J'hazarr hated to even touch daedric steel.

He was a few feet up when he turned around and looked down at the tiny little body crumpled helplessly on the stairs. What if there were more cultists in the ruin and they came to the main chamber to check on their buddies? He sighed noisily through his nostrils, shoulders slumping, and plodded back down.

 


	3. Chapter 3

# Chapter Three

 

A few minutes later J’hazarr was plodding back up the steps with the Argonian slung over one shoulder, his hand on the thick base of her tail, and her own bag with the bracers inside slung over the other. He didn't have any way to carry them both otherwise. He lifted the visor of his helm when he stepped into the grey light and inhaled deeply the fresh night air – fresh _er_ , anyway, it still stank of stagnation and decay from the surrounding swamp but at least it wasn't gore – and immediately inhaled a gnat or something. He pressed shut one nostril and tried to snort it out but he couldn't get any snot to come up.

He had no more magicka to cast water walk and had run out of potions days before, so J'hazarr slogged through the few inches of water, cringing when he felt the cold seeping in through his boots. When he was out of the waterlogged path he kicked his feet to shake water out, but his leather shoes inside the sabatons continued to squish as he made his way North on a relatively solid foot trail. Travelers had picked this path because it was on a rise.

Lots of creaking, chirping voices sang to him from the swamp at either side of the path. Sometimes the path became mucky and he had to slog through that, or he had to pick his way over a bunch of fallen logs that practically fell apart when he touched them. He could hear a nix hound baying in the distance, could see the shapes of netch drifting between the lines of black trees. He sincerely hoped he was not inadvertently straying too close to a mating pair. It was very difficult in the dark to judge how close they were. Aside from the moons and stars, the only light came from the luminous russula that grew in clusters at the bases of the trees, and that was very faint.

If he stopped and looked out at the Coast he would see a field of blue stars twinkling in the dark, like fireflies that never blinked out. It would be very beautiful if there weren't a million fucking gnats buzzing around his head.

He was sweating inside his armor, and that sweat was sticking his padding to his skin. Damn, but that tiny Argonian was heavy when you had to carry her for half a mile. He almost missed the big tree that marked his camp – not right on the path, but beyond it behind some bushes in a grassy clearing. They had left the swamp behind, for the most part, and the terrain was beginning to transform to the hilly grasslands of the West Gash.

He dumped her on the ground by the ashes of yesterday's fire, not on his own bedroll, and started armoring down. A tin cup was sitting wedged in the ashes to collect rainwater, but it hadn't rained, and his burlap sack of provisions had been unmolested.

J'hazarr was forty-one now and the lines of middle age had begun to dig themselves into his face. His tattoos had faded further in color, their edges now fuzzier, indistinct, and muddled by pockmarks – the result of leaving rust chancre untreated for too long several years ago. His hair, thinner than it had once been, came roughly to his shoulder blades. It was tied loosely back with a frayed piece of twine. His bangs had been cut haphazardly with a knife and sat in clumps of varying lengths, all plastered to his forehead with sweat after the helm was removed. None would interfere with his vision. The lobe of his left ear and a bit of that cheek were warped with pink scar tissue. The old burn continued down the back of his jaw and down his neck, disappearing below his armor padding.

He piled up his armor by the bedroll, chucked his wet leather turnshoes and socks off away from the camp without paying attention to where they landed, and then spent a few minutes collecting branches with which to light a small fire. He had to use a flint and steel to do it. He knew no destruction magick at all.

When it was burning well enough he sat back on his bedroll, barefoot and wearing only his armor padding. He gazed disinterestedly at the limp Argonian across from the fire with one arm on his knee and a waterskin in hand. J'hazarr's face was shiny in the light of the fire from oil and sweat.

He had no idea what to do with her. He probably ought to give her water, but there wasn't much fresh water around here and he didn't really want to waste what he had left. He could see that she was breathing, but what if she had swelling in her brain or something? Well, there was nothing he could easily do about that. J'hazarr sipped water idly while he watched her and thought about making dinner, but moving seemed like too much effort.

Her knife sat beside him on the bedroll, her bag piled up by his own to his right. Both were easily accessible from where he sat.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors was aware of things happening occasionally: movement, pain, pressure on her stomach and her lower back that tweaked old fears: _push him off bite him now before he has your arms now bite now._ Each time she was about to move or struggle the black swam back up and drowned her again.

Eventually it started to recede in a more definite way and she was aware that she was lying on her back, one arm outflung and one half-pinned under her, legs all tangled up with her tail. Her head throbbed, her jaw throbbed out of sync with it. A small groan escaped, but she stifled it quickly, shoving her face into the -

Dirt. She was lying in dirt, slightly cool against her back. She shook her head, blowing it out of her nostrils as she squinted her eyes open. Clearer scent now: fire, ashes, swamp water, a lot of plant things that she couldn't identify but that were very different from each other, and a very familiar smell of rusty iron and sweaty not-a-human, maybe-a-Khajiit.

She shut her eyes again as memories ganged up and ambushed her.

_I should've bought it on the stairs. He must have carried me... somewhere...?_

She rearranged herself carefully, as quietly as possible, until she lay on her side with her tail curled up over her thigh. Then she worked on pushing herself up onto an elbow, squinting to try and make her eyes adjust. No one had come over to step on her neck yet. There was no hurry, she couldn't feel her knife's hilt digging into her hip. _No knife. Bag's gone, too._ She knew not to look right at the fire. You didn't look right at any bright light when it was dark. Every Thief knew that.

Her arms and legs felt weak, and weaker every time her head throbbed. She did not reach up to feel for the lump she knew was there. She could see a bulky shape in the corner of her eye, across the fire. She knew the evil bastard was watching and she didn't plan to give him the satisfaction. In another few seconds of very slow and careful rearrangement she was sitting up, arm resting across one knee as she stared at the darkness away from the fire and breathed hard, trying not to throw up. There were scrubby bushes around them, the trampled remains of dead grass around the edges of the clearing. She had no idea how far they were from the ruin. The very faint spice-blood-fire smell of daedra was around somewhere, she could catch it when her head hurt least, but that was probably because -

Because he still had the bracers. Two-Colors' heart jerked in her chest. _I can still survive this. I can still get them and get out of here -_

_Wait. He kept you alive for a reason. Find out what it is. He obviously thinks he can stop you getting away._

She looked down at her wrists, then back up at the darkness. A green eye slanted toward the dim shape on the other side of the fire, still half-shut.

“No bracer, no shackle,” she said. Her voice was irritatingly high and weak, one of the things about herself she hated most. If she could successfully pitch it lower she might be able to at least confuse a non-Argonian about her sex, convince them she was a half-grown boy. Not that that would matter to a slaver, of course. Not at all.

J'hazarr smiled very slightly as he watched her begin to shift around, really just a twitch of his cheek. It was not because he was glad to see that she was alive, but because he found her slow movements humorous. Like she thought he couldn't see her if she moved slow enough. It was a bit like a dog putting just its paws on the bed because it knew it wasn't allowed on the furniture. Then again, it might not be deliberate, if she was in a lot of pain.

“Uh, I'm not a slaver,” he said flatly, leaning his weight on one splayed leg to get a better look at her from around the small fire. “I'm a Khajiit myself, if you hadn't noticed.” Some people didn't notice. Some people thought he was a tall Bosmer with strange tattoos. It made a backward shithole like Vvardenfell a little more bearable.

Well, she was up and talking, so J'hazarr supposed he'd have to extend the basic hospitalities. He capped the waterskin and tossed it over to her. It hit the ground about a foot away from her.

“I'll assume you attacked me because, in your mindless panic, you mistook me for one of the cultists. But you're an honest, law-abiding citizen who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, right,” he said dryly. His tone suggested that he did not really care about the answer, and he sat up straight to rummage in his sack. It was a dingy grey, covered in dirt stains.

Two-Colors opened her mouth to retort angrily: _Of course I can smell that you're a Khajiit, idiot. I also know an Ohmes-raht can pass._ Then she looked at the skin bottle in front of her and clacked her jaws shut, huffing air out through her nostrils. She shifted onto her knees and hooked it carefully with one claw, tail curling into an arc in the dust behind her to keep her balance. She was aware that her throat was very dry. She was less sure if her stomach would hold it.

“Are you with the Temple?” she asked. She drank carefully, then squinted as it hit her stomach, baring her teeth at the wave of nausea. It stayed down, just.

The answer didn't really matter. If he wasn't a slaver she was pretty sure she knew how it was going to go. It was odd he'd chosen her and not the Dunmer, who had been much prettier, but then, he could cast spells. He would be able to tell that Two-Colors couldn't. And anyway, he probably had mistaken her for younger than she was. He wouldn't be the first, and a hatchling fucker wouldn't care about her looks, that she was dull and flat and had no horns or crest. They would care only that they had access to what they wanted. He hadn't done anything that could be felt while she was out, so he wanted her conscious when it happened. That figured.

She edged further around the fire and tossed the bottle back, looking more closely at him as she did so. From the way he'd fought, she had thought he was much younger than he actually was. Judging by his hair – hells, judging by the shape his face was in – it wasn't just his armor he hadn't been taking care of.

_He probably goes around murdering cultists because it makes him feel better about what he does to girls like me._ Loathing and anger twisted in her gut, familiar friends, sovereign against fear. She ought to run.

He had her knife and her bag, which had her remaining septims and her toothpick and her lockpicks and everything else she currently owned. More important, he had the bracers.

Besides, how many steps would she get before she fell down and passed out? She'd only had her bells rung, as old Bartleby had called it, once before in her short life, but she remembered how long it had taken to get over it. She felt a wave of weakness, wishing for that pile of crates behind the old skooma-eater's house. It was down the other end of the street from the corner club. Behind the house it was dark, and the crates were reassuringly dusty and empty, and there was one big enough to hold a small person comfortably if they pushed up the lid very carefully so as not to disturb the smaller crate on top. You could hide in there two days and sleep off the pain in your head and nobody would know.

_Don't be a stupid infant. That's what Calvus would expect, what your Xiha would expect. The Hells with them and the Hells with this asshole in front of me._

All of this went through her mind in a couple of seconds. Outwardly she hunched up for a second, head bent, teeth bared, and then forced herself straight again, looking away from the fire.

“No, not with the Temple,” he said, and pulled out a smaller, cleaner food sack wrapped tightly around their contents. From this he retrieved a couple of hardtack biscuits peppered with comberries. He'd made them himself, and bits of ash from the fire were stuck to them. He tossed the sack to her after taking out what he wanted.

“Thanks.” Two-Colors caught the sack automatically, then poked her nose into it to sniff it. Her stomach rebelled hard enough that she felt the pain in her chest, where a bruise had definitely formed under the scales; but that was nothing to what her head felt like. She squinted, lowering the bag to rest it on one thigh. It wasn't bad food. She'd eaten a lot worse.

J'hazarr wasn't a member of the Temple, but several Temple officials knew him and paid him for his services on the sly. But he did not turn the artifacts over to Temple custody, something the Temple could not officially condone. They hated the profane tools of the House of Troubles, sure – hated them in the hands of anyone besides themselves. That was all too complicated to summarize to her in a few words so he didn't bother.

“You're not getting those bracers back,” J'hazarr said blandly around a mouth full of biscuit. He had his arm propped up on one knee so he could deliver food to his mouth without much movement. His ropy tail sat limp on the bedroll beside himself. “You can take the rest of your things. I've only got it all over here by me so you wouldn't stab me.” He wished that she'd just go away now, but after a head injury like that, traveling alone at night through the Bitter Coast would be very stupid.

It was a struggle for Two-Colors not to be openly hostile, but he'd never go to sleep with her nearby and armed if she was really obvious. He wasn't Temple and he definitely wasn't Legion; a Legionnaire would stab out their own two eyes before they would let their equipment get into the kind of shape his was in. Good. Nobody would come looking for him.

“No, of course not,” she sighed. She scooted over slowly, then stretched out on all fours, tail extended behind her, to reach for the bag with one outstretched hand. He didn't try to grab her. At the moment, sitting there all flop-tailed, he looked like the laziest Khajiiti bastard on the continent. It might have fooled her if she hadn't seen the spellsword kill three people in as many minutes.

Two-Colors edged slightly closer to get the dagger. In process she deftly switched out the food bag in its place, then she retreated slowly back to the other side of the fire to sit back down and sheath the small blade. That seemed like a titanic effort. She sat crosslegged with the bag leaning against her hip, tail curled around it, and was still for a little. Her pulse fluttered visibly in her cream-white throat, calming slowly as she looked up at the sky, corner of her vision always on the big bastard across the fire. If she didn't move it didn't hurt much.

There were so many stars! It was like they didn't like hanging over Balmora and had all moved out here where it was quiet. The sounds of the Coast were wrong as the smells were wrong, insects and the odd bird and the distant squonk of... maybe a cliff racer? She'd only seen a live one twice. And that had been today. There were no distant voices, no footsteps, no drunken laughter, no guards greeting one another on their patrols. It was eerie.

_I'm tired. Brains are going soft on me. Can't have that._

_It's not that hard. Now I don't even have to use my teeth. Kill the giant hatchling fucker, take the bracers, hide in the first pool deep enough to hold me but not deep enough to hold slaughterfish and sleep it off. They won't rust. They're daedric. Then I've only got to survive the walk back. It'll be easy._

_It'll be easy._

J’hazarr’s eyes followed her creeping movements as she took her things back. His morning star was behind him where he could easily grab it, but even without that J'hazarr didn't for one second think he'd have any trouble handling her if she tried anything stupid. How old was she anyway, thirteen?

When he was finished eating he wiped his hands on his legs and twisted shut the food sack before stuffing it into the bigger one. He could see the bracers in there, the malicious red gleam of the inlays and the slick black that caught the starlight. He shuffled things around until they were at the bottom of the sack, avoiding touching them as he did so. He could feel his magicka slowly trickling back in, not yet enough to cast a really useful spell, but enough to let him relax a little. Magicka was like birdsong in a forest – you might not notice it when it was there, but when it was gone it felt like something was wrong in the world.

The Argonian had sat down again and made no indication she planned to leave. She seemed to be watching the stars instead. J'hazarr squinted slightly, watching her.

“What –“ His voice came out as a harsh scrape, so J'hazarr cleared his throat and tried again. Their conversation so far had entailed more speaking than he'd done all week and his vocal chords ached. “What were you doing in the shrine anyway?”

“Looking for something worth stealing,” Two-Colors said, lowering her head slowly. She had been peripherally aware of him moving gently about, but he seemed to be keeping to his side of the fire. She was increasingly confused. Why should he treat her this well when he obviously intended to rape and possibly kill her?

The clouds of gnats seemed to have died down as it got cooler. They couldn't do much to her in any case, but it was something to pay attention to. These weren't her streets. All the cues were wrong.

Maybe he was planning to haul her back to town and drop her off at a temple, fortify his own sense of righteousness by claiming he'd rescued her from somebody else and depend on her being afraid to denounce him. Maybe he had enough credibility that nobody would believe that about him anyway.

Or maybe he just wanted her to be nice and calm and go to sleep so it would be easier for him.

“What a perfectly reasonable answer,” he said flatly and continued to stare at her, although he couldn't really make out her facial expression because of the fire. It occurred to J'hazarr then that she probably wasn't actually alone. There might be others and they could have trailed him, thinking perhaps that he'd kidnapped their ally. Or maybe they didn't care either way about her and just wanted the bracers. That was more likely.

Two-Colors lifted one shoulder.

“What do you want from me? I'm not some daedra worshipper. I'm not religious.” She thought about that. “I've never even licked the Hist, unless they held me up to it when I was a baby. I guess that could've happened.”

J'hazarr shrugged as well. He wanted the truth for his own peace of mind, but she had no reason to tell him anything. He figured they'd probably better get on with the whole show of pretending to sleep.

“All right. Well, I'm going to bed. You do as you wish.” He waggled the fingers of a hand at her in a dismissive gesture and began stuffing himself into his bedroll. He settled down on his back, hands clasped neatly over his belly on the outside of the blanket. He also had a sheet that he sometimes threw over his face to keep the bugs off, but he couldn't have his head covered tonight. The fire would draw the insects for a while, anyway. His weapon was easily within reach.

Two-Colors huffed through her nostrils in response and dragged her knapsack around to make a rough pillow. She poked it a couple of times to shove the lockpicks around under the spare clothes. She had slept in her clothes before; it was having leathers to sleep in that was new.

And now he was going to bed without even trying to wash his sweaty, smelly softskin body. Well, that should make it easier not to fall asleep. She lowered herself carefully on one elbow, stifling another groan, and curled up facing away from the fire. It was that or have her dagger pinned under her if he tried something sooner than she expected. It wasn't as if he was going to do anything without her noticing it. He wasn't going to throw a knife into the back of her skull. If he'd wanted her dead she'd be dead already.

It felt so good to lie down. Her head hurt so much less, and she was so tired. She'd slept on the ground more often than not, and on harder ground than this...

Two-Colors' eyes snapped open. She'd been falling asleep. Maybe she had been asleep. It was still dark, but the fire was silent behind her, the scent of burning muted. She sat up very slowly, very carefully, not making the slightest sound, and turned to look. It was only coals now, coals and ashes. She shifted onto her belly, still very slowly, still very carefully, watching the Khajiit. Even her breathing was careful, measured, muted.

Her head still hurt. She balled that up and shoved it into a deep hole to keep for later. Now there was work to do.

 

* * *

 

J'hazarr waited for something to happen.

He was slightly annoyed that he had to lie there with his eyes closed – a very boring activity, when he'd rather be pounding out the dents in his armor and giving it a wipe down.

He didn't regret picking her up, not really. He always hoped that they would be different, like that young man earlier. Why couldn't the fucker have just gone away when he had the chance, left his cult behind to live an ordinary life? J'hazarr knew Daedra worship wasn't worth it in the end, but he didn't know how to communicate that to these people, so the best he could do was kill them to prevent them mucking up anybody else's life.

It was honestly a lovely night out. The humidity wasn't so obnoxious as it cooled off. He preferred to be clean but J'hazarr had been filthy often enough that he wouldn't feel itchy or uncomfortable. His hair had dried and was no longer sticking to his skin. The breeze was very relaxing, brushing softly over his skin as he waited and listened to the hypnotic susurration of the leaves.

He wasn't even aware of his consciousness fading gently into the dark.

 

* * *

 

Gods, he stank, worse the closer Two-Colors got. Male bodies weren't so bad when they were clean, or even unwashed for a day or so; she had grown up around people that didn't have access to a lot of clean water and would usually need to drink it instead of wash with it. Still, dried sweat and blood and body odor was an unpleasant mixture of odors. Well, soon enough he would be dead and even smellier but she would be far away, underwater, safe, and soon after she would be proudly handing Habasi the keys to her salvation. Her heart pounded as she belly-crawled nearer, around the dead fire.

It ought to be in the eye. She'd only get one chance. If she cut his throat it would be messy; if she stabbed him in the chest or back he might be conscious long enough to hurt her. She had not forgotten how strong his grip was.

She had hated doing that to the Dunmer with the crossbow. It had been ugly.

It was going to be ugly no matter what.

Two-Colors stopped up by his head, rose ever so slowly to her knees as she drew the dagger. She was so tired that even fear-adrenaline couldn't unfog her pounding head, so she was completely unaware that she inhaled sharply and audibly before she plunged the blade down toward the sleeping Khajiit's eyelid.

A small noise pulled J'hazarr up out of his shallow sleep and he titled his head to one side, not really even aware yet that he was waking up, and then a blade gouged deep into the side of his face. It cut him from eye-corner to the top of his jaw. He screamed. His left arm flailed out and smacked a warm body. His legs kicked up but were trapped by the bedroll. Then his right hand closed around the hilt of the morning star and he flailed in the direction of the attacker.

He moved! He moved his godsdamned head to the side! Two-Colors knew she'd missed before the blade ever connected, but couldn't stop it. With horror she watched it gouge down his tattooed cheek, his scream a raw offense in her ears, and then his arm jerked and he hit her in the stomach. It was like running into a wall. She was half-thrown, half-dragged backward, and then she scrambled free of him just in time to watch the morning star slam down on the dusty ground where her thigh had been.

Moving fast made her dizzy again. She scrambled to her feet to run, got about one step and the world blinked out for about a second. To Two-Colors it seemed that she was standing and then suddenly on her knees, dagger on the ground beside her hand. The clearing tilted violently around her, her vision throbbing in time with her head.

To J'hazarr it appeared that she got up, turned to run, and then suddenly stumbled sideways and fell.

“You little bitch!” he snarled, crawling along the ground with one hand while he squirmed and kicked himself free of the bedroll. Blood poured from the gash into his hair, and then down the side of his face when he got himself upright on his knees. He grabbed her by the shoulder, fingers digging in tight, and let the magicka go.

“ _Xuth_ \- ” she had the oath half-out of her mouth when a hand clamped onto her left shoulder, so tight that she felt her scales indent even through the leather, and then Two-Colors jerked as there was suddenly pain. She could _feel_ the life draining out of her body and into that hand, and her weak attempt to pull free was completely fruitless. Every cell in her body ached and then the muscles in her arms and legs would not hold her. When he let go she topped forward on her face, tail flopping back onto the ground.

The split skin of his face knit together as her life force drained into his palm, but then J'hazarr realized: _Why did she fall?_ He released her abruptly before the cut had finished healing, staring in stupid astonishment at her back. He'd been half-asleep when he reacted, but now his brain had time to process what had just happened. She'd tried to kill him herself. She didn't have any allies. He could pick her up and snap her like a twig if he wanted to, but still she'd tried it.

He hadn't killed her, Two-Colors realized. He was going to fuck her, she'd been right, of course she'd been right. Absolute terrified fury buoyed her up onto her elbows and she started to try to crawl away. Water, if she could just get to water -

The world blinked again as she slumped, eyes half-open and momentarily blind, pulse fluttering in her throat.

J'hazarr cursed under his breath and sat back on his legs. He let the weapon drop from his hand and gingerly touched the cut on right side of his face, which was still leaking blood. The cut began _right_ by his eye and it fucking hurt. With the fire gone it was too dark to see color clearly and his fingers, when he looked at them, were slick with black.

He glared at the slumped over Argonian. No one was really that stupid. She had to be desperate. But why?

_It's not your concern. Even if some Camonna Tong bastard has her entire family held ransom for the bracers, it doesn't justify trying to kill me in my sleep. She deserves no pity._ But he couldn't help wondering what sort of life culminated in a girl her age (he assumed her to be a minor) attempting to kill a man in his sleep when she had seen that very same man murder three other people in front of her. His brows drew sadly together as he looked at her, a brief flicker of emotion, and then it was gone.

His hand closed around the hilt of his weapon again. J'hazarr rose to his feet and turned back with the intention to pack up his things without acknowledging her again.

The world blinked on and found her lying down – why was she lying down? Two-Colors squeezed her eyes shut and open, one hand groping for her dagger. Her fingers found nothing. It was blurry and double and out of reach back where she'd dropped it. No one was touching her, no rough hand tearing at her clothes. She pushed herself onto her side slowly. She was so tired, and the world kept turning at an alarming rate. She reached up and felt at her skull with one hand. The lump seemed bigger than she remembered, rewarding her questing fingers with a stab of pain and nausea.

There were a couple of big stinky Ohmes-raht on the other side of the dead firepits doing something. Hard to say what. They were blurry, too.

“Not a hatch-fucker... after... all?” she said weakly.

J'hazarr's head whipped sharply around to glare at her while in the process of rolling up his bed.

“Wha? What did you just say?” His mouth gaped in disbelief.

“Why else would you...” She slurrily trailed off. Maybe she would just rest for a second. That sounded better than trying to sit up. Two-Colors let her head sink down and forward. Her eyes blinked slowly, then shut. The pain glided gently away into black nothing.

“You really are something else,” J'hazarr spat, angrily winding the leather straps around his bedroll. “I could've left you in that ruin for a wandering atronach to find, but no. I carried you to safety. I let you drink my water. I offered you food. I let you sleep by my fire when I could –” He stopped in the middle of jamming his cup into the bag to glance back and noticed she had slumped over and wasn't moving at all now.

“Little bitch,” he muttered, and dragged out a cloth to wet and clean the cut on his face, this time without the quick, angry movements of before. Then he began the process of dressing himself in armor coated with stale sweat on the black-painted inside and blood on the outside. It was something he did almost daily by himself and J'hazarr was able to do it quickly and efficiently even in the dark, although he was forced to light a fire again just so he could find the socks and shoes he'd tossed off carelessly earlier. For now he stuffed his helm into the bag.

When he was done with all of that J'hazarr finally returned to the unconscious Argonian with a pair of his own unwashed hose. He roughly tugged her arms back and tied her wrists together as tightly as he could with one, her ankles with the other. The bonds would be quite easy to slip with just a bit of wrestling, but he hadn't tied her up to keep her prisoner. He only wanted to make sure she didn't wake up suddenly and slash him with those claws of hers.

His bag cinched shut with cord, and J'hazarr carried it by winding the cord around his fist and letting the bag rest over his shoulder blade. Now he carried her bag and his bedroll in the same way, the straps also wound around his fist. He tucked her knife into his own belt. With the Argonian draped over the other shoulder it was a miserable trek through the dark hills toward Caldera. He was forced to circumnavigate the chain of small mountains that ringed the caldera for which the city had been named. It stretched an eight mile distance into ten.

It wasn't really that bad. After the initial irritation wore off, J'hazarr accepted his lot. He needed to buy supplies anyway, so it wasn't like he was going out of his way, and he could cast his feather spell when his shoulders started to ache. J'hazarr couldn't do it constantly or he would run out of magicka, but often enough to give himself a rest without actually stopping.

Dawn began to break after just a few hours and then he was no longer slogging through the dark. Blood congealed on his cut and the ache became background noise, no different from the distant thump-thumping of a scrib marking its territory. In the last hours of the journey J'hazarr met with a merchant coming from Ald'ruhn, and for a drake he let J'hazarr hoist the Argonian and the bags onto his cart. There wasn't much room – there wasn't even a place for the driver in the tiny cart, he walked alongside his guar. She ended up draped on her side over a lumpy pile of sacks with her tail hanging down, crates wedged against her back.

“Maybe you ought to invest in some bracers next time,” the Dunmer merchant told him. J'hazarr returned the mer's amused smile with an unpleasant, tight-lipped one.

“Thanks for the suggestion.”

They didn't speak again. By the time they came to the Western gate the sun had risen hours ago and was a pale globe burning through the morning mist. Caldera was a midsize Imperial town shadowed by a big, blocky, uninspiring chunk of castle on a hill. Smoke was curling up from the thin chimney pipes, enticing scents from the cookfires mingling with guar dung, straw, and dust. He could hear the distant pounding as a smith began the day's work and a dog barking somewhere – definitely something you'd only hear in an Imperial town.

He had parted ways with the merchant at the gate, so now J'hazarr hauled his burdens through the bustle of people and carts making their way to the market square. An armored man carrying a probable slave was not such an unusual thing to see. A few humans and betmer shot him dirty looks as he passed, but all quickly averted their eyes, and of course not one stopped J'hazarr to make sure he had a right to be carrying a young, bound girl like a piece of luggage. He had hoped someone would so he could offload her on _them_.

Caldera didn't have a Temple but they did have a Mages Guild. To an outside observer the door appeared to open for J'hazarr all on its own, the knob turning slowly at first, and then the entire door jumping inward as if it'd been slapped. J'hazarr had to turn sideways to ease the Argonian in through the narrow doorway.

A human woman in a belted robe was sitting at a table just inside the entrance and she stood abruptly when she saw the scaly head emerge through the doorway, eyes open wide and mouth gaping like a fish.

“She's injured. I need a healer and a bed,” he explained. The inside was thick with the musty book and harsh alchemical scents that J'hazarr had once been very familiar with. It felt like suddenly remembering a dream he hadn't had in several years. The room was packed with books and bottles and scrolls on tall shelves without quite reaching the point of clutter. A tapestry of Galerion hung from ceiling to floor in one of the rare bits of open space between shelves.

“We aren't equipped for –“

“I have a daedric dagger to trade,” J'hazarr interrupted. She nodded and moved brusquely to open a door, waving for J'hazarr to follow. It opened into a circular tower room that obviously served as a sleeping area for servants or apprentices in addition to storage. Straw had been strewn on the floor in the hollow beneath the spiral staircase, indented from sleeping bodies. The rest of the room was filled with crates. Motes of straw dust swam in the light of a large thatched window further up the tower.

J'hazarr dropped his bags by the door and gently laid the Argonian down in the hollow of a straw bed on her side, lowering himself onto his knees beside her. He debated untying her, but couldn't risk having her lash out at this innocent woman, so he sat with one hand on her arm and nodded.

The mage laid her palms on the girl's arm, below J'hazarr's gauntlet, and a soft blue glow lit the dull scales of the Argonian's face. J'hazarr immediately noticed the pain in his face was gone; it was such a powerful heal that it had got him too because he was touching her.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors knew nothing that happened to her for some time. There were no flashes of memory or discomfort or anything at all. Though she occasionally moved or groaned as she was carried or bumped about, she never regained consciousness enough to form memory until she suddenly felt hands on her arm, the last dregs of fizzling magicka fading from her body. Automatically she lay very still, but she couldn't keep from flexing the muscles in her arms, which led to the discovery that they were tied behind her. Another small, careful movement found that yes, her ankles were tied, too.

Her head didn't hurt. Her chest didn't hurt either. She was hungry and thirsty, that was all. She could smell clean human, female, a lot of chemical things she dimly recognized as mage paraphernalia, straw, stone, and... very dirty Ohmes-raht. In rusty armor. He seemed to fill the room.

_Dammit._

_I'm alive. Let's start with that._

Two-Colors squinted her eyes open against the dim light. A human woman was kneeling in front of her, and behind her shoulder was an increasingly familiar muscular form in a filthy rusted cuirass. There was a new line of scar on his face where she had cut him.

She swallowed, shifting position very slowly. Her tail curled forward over her legs.

“Where are we?” she asked quietly. Her voice came out sounding rough and creaky, like a bad hinge.

“You're in the Caldera mage's guild,” J'hazarr said, tugging loose the bonds around her wrists. Two-Colors lay very still as he untied her, the cords in her neck stiff.

“Water and a meal, please?” he said to the mage. Her brows scrunched slightly, but the woman nodded without asking and went away. She closed the door behind herself, and J'hazarr heard a snap of orders as the woman told someone else not to open the door and to fix a plate from the kitchen.

He untied her ankles and stood with the hose in his fist. She sat up when he moved back out of reach, staring up at him. She was weak, but not dizzy. The Khajiit's eyes glided over the Argonian from head to tail with all the emotion one would display examining a chair.

“These people will see to you. Next time someone spares your life, you might try thanking him instead of trying to stab him.” He did not sound irritated, just slightly bored, as if nothing about their interaction had been in any way unusual. “Anyway, here's this.” He pulled her knife from his belt and tossed it down in the straw at his feet, then turned to pick up his bags without waiting for a response.

“What – how was I supposed to know?” she demanded hotly of his back, leaning forward to get her dagger and sheath it. “I mean why in every daedric hell would you carry me back to your camp? Why did you carry me _here_?”

She stopped as she realized how far they had been from Caldera.

“Fuck me sideways, you did carry me here.”

“You're right,” he said as he picked up his bedroll and his bag. “You had every reason to be suspicious of a strange man. I'd argue that your next course of action would have been to slip away from my camp, not try to murder me in my sleep. I obviously was not keeping you hostage. But you're equally as dull as you are homely, aren't you?” He only turned back enough for her to see the side of his face, one black eye regarding her with apparent disinterest, and then he put his hand on the doorknob.

“I was hit in the head so hard I couldn't walk, you asshole, where was I going to go? You _knew_ I couldn't get away - ”

She stopped again. Apparently he hadn't.

“Anyway, you're one to talk about looks,” she said sullenly. “Your face looks like a four-year-old tried to draw on a guar's ass.”

J'hazarr smiled, but he'd turned away again as he pushed open the door. Gods, she was a lippy little firebrand. How did an Argonian with a mouth like that survive in a place like Morrowind? “You're welcome,” he said lightly, hint of amusement in his voice, and waved a gauntleted hand before picking up his bag by the cord and stepping out.

He was about to kick the door shut behind himself when a Dunmer hastened toward him carrying a steaming bowl of stew, a clay cup, and a slice of bread on a wooden tray. J'hazarr could see big meaty chunks of nix and slices of carrots bobbing in the dark broth as the mer passed into the room, intoxicating scent wafting up to his nostrils. J'hazarr realized he was starving, but he would probably be pushing it to ask if he could eat here. He knew that he must stink horribly, and he was covered in blood. The mages would probably appreciate him finishing his business and getting the hells out.

The Dunmer who entered carrying the tray was probably an apprentice based on his apparent youth and plain clothing.

“I guess this is for you?” he asked the Argonian, setting the tray down on a crate near her bed of straw.

The door had been left open, and outside J'hazarr could be heard speaking. “Here it is. I need to buy potions as well. And could you tell me, where is the nearest inn?”

“Thank you, Serjo. That would be Shenk's,” replied a female voice, the mage from earlier. “You go East out the door, then turn South down the main street –“ her voice trailed off as they moved away, and there was a creaking of feet going up stairs.

“Come back here, you bas -” Two-Colors shut her mouth abruptly as the retreating stench of J'hazarr was overpowered by the smell of delicious food. The Khajiit was momentarily forgotten as she looked up at the Dunmer, huge-eyed. He wasn't old for a mage. He probably hadn't been doing it long.

“Yes, please,” she said politely. She scooted over to the crate. “Thank you very much.”

Still, she waited until he had gone and shut the door behind him to start eating. For one thing, she wasn't inclined to worry about table manners; it was all she could do not to shove her face directly into her soup. She picked it up in two shaking hands and drank from the side of the bowl instead. It was rich and salty and delicious and she hadn't eaten in – how long now? She wasn't sure how long she'd been out, but it had been long enough for the big bastard to haul her all the way to Caldera. Probably a night and a day and a half since the last kwama forager. She ought to go slow.

Two-Colors paused to have a drink.

_Shenk's, East out the door, South down the main street._

She ought to leave well enough alone, finish eating, get out of town and get on the first boat to anywhere else. He'd left her knapsack – gods, he'd carried her knapsack all the way here, too, there it was by the pallet. What was wrong with him, since he apparently wasn't a pervert? If they had been the same species she might have suspected she reminded him of some lost child of his, but he'd gone so far as to call her both dull and homely, so it probably wasn't that. It was all very confusing.

Everything would make more sense with food inside her. That had always been true up to this point.

At last she lay on her back on the straw beside the empty dishes, picking her teeth with her steel toothpick as she stared at the distant ceiling, tail wrapped around her left shin. Sense was still not being made.

The thing was that she didn't have enough money to buy her way off Vvardenfell, either, and most of those boats weren't big enough to stow away and not get caught; and if they caught you they'd throw you overboard, at least if you were Argonian and homely and not, for example, a Dunmer with huge jugs. Not even an Argonian would want to try swimming the rough sea passage between Vvardenfell and the mainland. There were slaughterfish big enough to swallow you whole out there, it was said. She'd seen a tooth as big as her arm in the market once.

Besides... Balmora was the only place she'd ever really lived. She knew it street by street, cobble by cobble, and what each sound and smell meant, and where to hide that was more or less safe. In a new city she would have to learn it all again, and – well, she wouldn't be worse off starting as a Toad when she'd never got past that rank here, that was one bright spot. If she could just not stab or kick anyone for a good few months she might be able to make it. People were so infuriating.

The Ohmes-raht was surely exhausted by now, after a long battle and a stab wound and an even longer walk carrying a hundred and fifteen pounds of dead weight. He would sleep heavily, and long. It couldn't be that hard to sneak into his room and quietly take the bracers away, if he hadn't sold them already. But she knew he hadn't. He'd been carrying a bag on one shoulder and an Argonian on the other, and he'd never stopped to wash or change. At this point she felt a small pang of something like guilt, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable thing twisting in her full stomach. Well, how could she know he was insane instead of a pervert? You couldn't tell that about people by looking. She still felt her reasoning had been sound.

He obviously thought he was righteous with all his talk about law-abiding citizens. He was probably going to hand the bracers over to the Temple or the Legion or someone even if he wasn't with either of those. Was anybody really worse off if they got sold to some Telvanni by Habasi instead? They were in all likelihood just going to use it to duel other Telvanni with, they didn't give a damn about anybody but each other.

Two-Colors dragged her knapsack over to peer inside. Her lockpicks were still tucked into the lining where she'd left them. Either he'd never found them, or he hadn't cared. She felt a little groggy after eating, but come on, she'd been sleeping for ten, twelve hours, right?

Two-Colors yawned. He was going to be there long enough to get cleaned up and eat before he slept, probably. She probably had time for a little nap. Just for a little bit.

 


	4. Chapter 4

# Chapter Four

 

J'hazarr was so very tired. He'd only got a few hours sleep the night before.

The woman mage – Jeannette Prielle, he thought she'd introduced herself as – had been exceptionally polite as he picked out the potions he wanted from her stock: five heals and five magicka restores. He really couldn't carry any more.

J'hazarr could sense the restrained hunger in her eyes after he showed her the dagger, but she was very careful not to appear too eager to have it until after their transaction was finished. Maybe she thought he was a simpleton who did not know its value.

He knew, he just didn't care. At first glance the toothed blade appeared to be rusty, but that was an old blood stain. Daedric steel did not rust. The dagger was unenchanted and had been used to carve out the heart of some outlander girl during a Mephalan ritual. J'hazarr didn't bother mentioning that, and Jeannette didn't ask.

J'hazarr tiredly plodded down to Shenk's Shovel, the inn Jeannette had described to him, and bought a room. _My armor, got to clean and fix up my armor._ But instead of doing that he took a very long bath that turned the water black and slurped down several bowls of stone soup. It was mostly comprised of vegetables with a few mysterious, chewy lumps that might have been meat. When he started to feel sick he went upstairs and collapsed face-first onto his rented bed without disrobing, groaning at the pressure in his stomach. The mattress was lumpy and smelled of many people, but J'hazarr was asleep within seconds.

He had locked and trapped the door with his own magicka purely out of habit and not because he for one second thought the Argonian might bother him again.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors woke up when she heard the door open again. It was that same apprentice come back to get the dishes. Groggy inquiry informed her that it had been almost four hours and was late in the day; he had been absorbed in a project and forgotten, he explained hurriedly, sorry, here's some more food, have to go. She managed to attract his attention long enough to ask if there was a bath house. He said most people paid to use the one at Shenk's.

“How much do I owe you people?” she asked him.

“Didn't you know? Your friend gave Jeanette a daedric dagger for all of it,” he said. “Sorry, I don't want to let the calcinator burn too long.” And he was gone, Two-Colors staring at the closed door behind him.

_A daedric dagger!? He could've bought five Argonian slaves for that price, or enough skooma to kill a room full of addicts, or an entire brothel for the night, or... Or..._

_He really IS insane. There's no other explanation that makes sense._ Was it more or less wrong to steal from a crazy person than from a person who had saved her life?

_Bah. Saved my life after HE almost killed me. None of this had to happen if he hadn't decided to grab me by the tail in the first place! Those bracers are mine!_

Still... She would not quickly forget how strong he was. So she'd need to be very, very careful. She ate her second meal of soup and bread – it was slightly congealed and lukewarm, but who cared, it was food – and gathered up her knapsack to get carefully to her feet. She remained steady. In fact, she felt all right, bouncing on her toes to check her balance, tail swaying behind her. Two-Colors went out quietly, passing a couple of mages engaged in a lively discussion involving a number of terms she didn't understand, and stepped out the front door into the dull golden light of late afternoon. She paused beside the door for a second to soak in the sun, but there was no time for that. Work still needed doing. The streets of Caldera were cobbled with a different color of stone than Balmora's, gray, harder, even having its own smell. There were cook fires burning already and a faint, lingering scent of some other kind of stone – ebony? She had only smelled ebony once or twice in her whole life. There hardly seemed to be anyone living here. She could only see three people in this narrow street: another Argonian, a woman with two little horns and a long brown dress, walking up the street the other way; an Imperial guard in iron armor, bearing a device that must be the town's, giving her a look common to guards everywhere; a Dunmer staggering along singing drunkenly to himself. She had come out of a small building wedged into the corner of the town's high stone wall, surmounted by a surprisingly high thatched tower. Over her head swung the sign of the Mages Guild, a stylized eye carved into dull wood. Two-Colors started off in the direction away from the slowly sinking sun, trying not to look as conspicuous as she felt. The main street wasn't hard to find. It was about twice as wide as the one the Guild was on, and there were more people about – fifteen or sixteen, at least. This place was a ghost town, was what. It was creepy.

Shenk's Shovel was a three-story building in the Imperial style, stone walls over a wood frame, stuccoed partway up, big windows made of a lot of smaller glazed panels built outward into jewel-like extrusions instead of flat against the wall. More annoyingly, it was pressed too tightly between the adjoining buildings to have an alley on either side. The back of the inn faced onto nothing but the city wall, just a narrow alley holding the skips and a lazy cat. The windows on the back could certainly be opened, because she narrowly escaped having dishwater emptied on her head from one as she legged it back to the end of the alley to walk around front again.

You could only get to the bath house through the front, so she had to actually pay for hers, a fact which offended her slightly. Still, she was very polite to the publican, a distinguished-looking Redguard in expensive but worn velvet clothes. His skin was the color of old bronze, rich and gleaming in the lantern light. He seemed a little overdressed for the fineness of the inn's public room, which was decorated with a couple of pictures of hills and water and was otherwise mostly old polished wood. Maybe he was just a clothes horse.

“Serjo, has my friend arrived yet?” she asked him, as he was tilling her few septims for her bath. “He's a big fellow, an Ohmes-raht. Probably in shabby shape, poor man, he's had a terrible couple of days.”

“Oh, yes, he's got the top-floor room,” Shenk said. “It's the only one on that floor. Do you want me to tell him you're here?” He eyed her with reservation; the odds seemed poor that a scrawny Argonian probable-child was “friends” with a Khajiit she hadn't arrived with.

“No no, Serjo, I'll just go and see him later. I wouldn't want to wake him up. He can be cranky. Thank you very much.”

She scooted back to the canvas curtain that divided the bath house from the public room. A second curtain divided the men's half from the women's. There were signs, but her nose told her which was which. There were a couple of cubicles, each with a big half-barrel tub. The water was lukewarm (hot water service only came with the in-room baths, and she couldn't say she blamed them if they were having to haul buckets upstairs) and you had to pump it up yourself, but Two-Colors didn't care. It was lovely to sink into it and watch the dirt float away from her scales, clean it out from around her nails, rub it off her ear-patches and fill her nostrils with the smell of oap. She took the time to wipe down her leathers as best she could, but she felt she couldn't take as much time as she would have liked. At least she was substantially cleaner when she went to peek out through the curtain. There would be no stink of blood or dirt to disturb the Khajiit's sleep.

The public room was busy, but people were mostly preoccupied with themselves and each other. Nobody was watching the stairs really intently, least of all the publican, who was busily chatting with an older Breton fellow at the bar, a robed person whose blond hair was streaked with gray. She might be able to get in this way, but she'd probably have to get out via the window. It wouldn't be a fun climb down the stone wall with the sack full of bracers tied around her waist, but she was reasonably sure she could do it. Two-Colors walked purposefully over to the stairs and up them, not too fast, not too slowly, hands on her knapsack's straps as if she entirely belonged there. A lot of people would look twice at a youthful Argonian strolling around alone, at least in a smaller city like Caldera, but casual movement would not attract most people's attention if they were thinking about other things. Every Thief knew it.

She didn't pass anyone on the stairs. There were a lot of stairs, in fact. Good thing she'd had a rest before she came over, she thought as she padded softly upward to the third story. There was a landing, a vase of flowers on a table in front of a glazed window, and one single door. Two-Colors looked around out of sheer habit – there was nowhere for anyone to hide up here – and went to kneel down and sniff at the door lock.

There was no key in the keyhole, but she felt the faint tingle of magicka that meant there was a trap. Suspicious old bastard. Well, she knew how to deal with that, anyhow. With her ear up to the keyhole, not touching, she could hear slow, heavy breathing. He was either asleep or convincingly pretending, and if he'd been tired enough to fall asleep in camp in his filthy clothes she sincerely doubted he'd be able to fake it now. She took off her knapsack and fished out a probe and a lockpick. Usually a trap wouldn't trigger unless something touched one spot inside the lock, unless he was really indifferent to the fates of chambermaids, and she thought that wasn't very likely of someone who had bartered a daedric dagger – gods! – to get the likes of her a heal and food.

Two-Colors put an eye up to the keyhole, squinting. It was dark and tiny, but if you were looking for it you could see the faint gleam of enchantment from the left side. You couldn't disarm something like that just by poking it with a piece of metal, not really, but if you hit it just right you could trigger it off; the material of the probe would not conduct magicka back to her, unlike a regular key. Of course, it would make a sound when the charge went off. She would have to hope he was tired enough not to wake up. Two-Colors leaned in, one eye shut as she stared into the lock with the other, and eased the probe inside to prod gently at the enchantment.

 

* * *

 

Years of sleeping in treacherous locales had conditioned J'hazarr to sleep lightly and wake easily. He'd been attacked in his sleep by goblins twice and a minotaur once before learning this skill. That was why the muted boom of his burden spell being triggered instantly snapped him out of a dream. J'hazarr's body twitched and he lifted his head from the pillow, suddenly realizing that he was still at the inn and he had not heard a door open. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes just as quickly, then made a show of mumbling in his sleep and shifting his legs. Then he was still, breathing evenly through his nose. _Could it really be her? Who else knows I'm in town?_

The bed was directly across from the door so he could not see it from where he lay on his right side, arm stuffed under the pillow. He was on top of the coverlet. Directly in front of him was a short dresser on which he had flopped his bag and his bedroll, while his armor was laid out on the floor along the wall between dresser and bed. Behind him was the room's single box window, a weepy fire fern in a chipped pot sitting on the window's shelf. There was a small table and pair of chairs in front of it.

After his bath he had put on the only pieces of regular clothes that he owned, a pair of soft kagouti skin pants, socks, and linen shirt. They were well-worn and not exactly clean, but they were at least fresher than the clothes he'd been wearing under his armor for the last several weeks. (Although he did wash his clothes in streams when he had the opportunity.) His leather shoes and morning star were with his armor, the morning star still “sheathed” in the belt.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors, eye to the keyhole, winced at the noise and winced again when she saw him twitch. He flopped back down again, but she watched him very closely for several seconds. Was he canny enough to pretend? He hadn't been pretending back at the camp. He'd been sleeping soundly right up until she got close enough to stab him, she was sure of it. The sound of his breathing was still regular, but you could fake that...

 _I'm not walking wounded NOW. If he jumps up I can run away,_ she thought. _I need the bracers._

She tucked the probe away and pulled out a lockpick to apply it ever so gently to the tumblers of the door. He had probably locked it by magic, but the spell would break when the tumblers were tickled just right, and it should be much quieter than the other one -

_Snik._

Easy. Easy enough. Two-Colors squinted through the keyhole again, but he didn't seem to have moved. She turned the knob and opened the door very, very slowly, by inches. You had to let the room's light change slow, you couldn't do it fast. She shrugged her knapsack back on carefully, wary of rustling leather on leather.

She crept through on her belly and eased the door shut just as slowly, only one hand up high to turn the knob as she looked around for the bracers or anything they might be in. Probably in the bag. She'd look there first. Two-Colors crept around the edge of the room, hand to the floor, hand to the wall, foot to the floor, foot to the wall, delaying the moment when he would be between her and the door as long as possible.

J'hazarr listened very carefully, trying not to move, not to breathe too fast or to let his pulse rise. It was hard not to twitch his fingers. He felt like a taut bowstring ready to launch its projectile. Magicka trembled within him, gathering in his forearms in preparation for explosive release. He wouldn't have been able to hear the soft click of the lockpick touching the tumblers or the whisper of scale against floor if he hadn't been concentrating very hard.

_Why does she want THOSE particular bracers so damned bad? If she's a thief, why didn't she rob the mages guild while she was there? They've got plenty of shit that would be easier to carry and far easier to sell._

_Is she a worshipper of Dagon after all? A rival sect? The puppet of another Daedra who just wanted to fuck with Dagon's followers?_

Those thoughts took less than a second to tumble through his mind but J'hazarr found himself growing angry.

_Just like the others. Your pity is wasted. When will you learn?_

Still he did not move. The bracers were near the bottom of his burlap sack. He did not have much else of value. His helm, his smaller sacks of food, a hammer for his armor – the rest was dirty clothes and other things no one would ever dream of stealing. But he did have a purse with about fifty drakes in it. J'hazarr wondered if she would steal that, too, after all he had done for her.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors crept up to the knapsack, then paused to look at the Khajiit on the bed. Had his shoulder moved? Was it just her imagination? The top of his shirt had been left unlaced, old pink scar from a burn clearly visible extending down from his throat. Who the hells was he? Some ex-Legionnaire who couldn't get enough of the fighting? Was that even possible? The few ex-Legion she'd seen with those kind of marks had been quietly bitter, unable or unwilling to fight more after the things they had seen. Obviously he did not fall into that category. Maybe he was some kind of Daedric cultist himself, worshipping one of the supposedly good Daedra and killing the followers of the others. It would be odd for an Azuran, and it seemed to her that a Meridian should be out looking for necromancers, but who knew?

_Not my problem. Get the bracers. Get out._

She dug into the sack as quietly as possible. It wasn't terribly hard to find the bracers. They were heavy and cold to the touch. She lifted them out very, very slowly, one at a time, and into her sack, then tied the strings of it around her waist.

Now the window. Almost there. Her heart pounded in her ears, pulse fluttering in her throat as she crawled over to reach up and unlatch the window, every so slowly, ever so softly.

A faint draft of cool air blew in from the window, causing Two-Colors to wince again, but the Khajiit still hadn't moved. She crept up over the sill, an awkward business requiring a lot of shifting of the bag hanging down her backside to avoid clinking, and hung by her hands as she sought footholds. The stones of the wall were large, and the cracks between them were deep. It wasn't so hard. She'd done worse. She braced her feet, clamped one hand on the outer sill for dear life, and gently tugged the window shut behind her.

She was gasping for breath by the time she was on the ground. She had never been accustomed to carry that much weight and climb at the same time! She wasn't an upper-story specialist, that was usually a Khajiit's job.

_And your job is to swim through sewer water and fit through tiny holes while assholes lie to you. Maybe remember that before you start saying “not my job” to anything._

She groaned as she turned to look up at the outer wall, rubbing her aching arms, but it was the safest way out. It was nearly dark now, and no one was watching back here. _It'll be easier than coming down from that window. You can do this. You can do this._

This was a tougher climb. The wall had been more thoroughly mortared than the building, forcing her to pause and dig with her claws to secure herself at almost every movement upward. She whisked over the top flat on her belly to avoid creating a silhouette that someone far off might notice, then hung by her fingertips and dropped the eight or so feet to the ground. She landed and rolled, producing a soft rattle from the bracers and probably a bruise on her bum, but she was out! Out and free! Two-Colors crouched, looking around hastily as if the Khajiit were about to levitate out over the wall and attack, but surely he didn't know that spell. Only the most advanced mages did, and he was a spellsword who apparently couldn't even heal himself without draining someone else.

_He's not a sharmat, not some godling. He's just a middle-aged betmer who is bigger and stronger than you. EVERYONE is bigger and stronger than you, dammit. Relax. Move._

She crept low to the ground on all fours, fingertips and toes, until she was far enough from the city to be covered by the sharp-smelling bushes that littered the sward outside the walls. She didn't know what it was called, only that she would recognize the smell if she found it again.

Now... how the hell did she get back to Balmora? It wasn't as if she knew how to navigate by the stars. They were pretty, she guessed, but they didn't mean anything.

She vaguely remembered hearing that Caldera was North of Balmora, and West was toward the setting sun, so East should be away from it, right? She squinted at the last hint of gray on the horizon and put her back to that. Which one was – that's right, it was North, East, South, West, like the hands of a clock. So if she was facing East, South was on her right.

You know. Where the giant bloody road was.

Two-Colors cursed herself for a fucking idiot and started off that way, padding along the brush by the side of the broad track. She kept close to the brush, ready to dart back out of sight at the first sight or smell of anyone or anything alive. If she had been in the city she might have laid pepper over her trail, or tried to find a way to cut through the river to confuse her scent – even another Argonian would have trouble tracking her through water after a few minutes had passed. Out here she was lost, confused by the smell of the soft loamy ground and the smokeless clear air and all the many, many herbal things. She had no idea she was leaving a trail a blind tracker could follow, she was only trying to watch her feet and not step on anything loud.

 

* * *

 

J'hazarr had utterly convinced himself that the Argonian must be connected to another group of Daedra worshippers. Why else would she be so persistent in stealing the bracers? His fingers itched to release his most powerful health drain as he listened to her creep around his room, but J'hazarr forced himself to be still. To be calm.

_Be calm while I'm being robbed. Yeah, right._

J'hazarr was not totally confident in his tracking abilities, and he was no illusionist. He was possibly doing something very, _very_ stupid in letting her leave with the bracers, but his mind was made up. The risk of losing the bracers was worth it if there was any chance at all that she might lead him to other cultists, other artifacts...

J'hazarr counted to ten in his mind as soon as he heard the window shut, then rolled out of bed to hastily stuff his feet into his shoes. They were soft turnshoes meant for use with armor, but he had nothing else. There was no time to armor up, and armor would not serve him for sneaking after the Argonian in any case. It was impossible to move silently in it and the cleaner patches would catch the light.

Then he wrestled the morning star free of his belt – another encumbrance that would not serve him now. That left him with the potion pouch and his knife, a battered piece of steel in a thin leather sheath about six inches long. It was sharp on one side, used for gutting fish and the like. His fingers moved numbly as he tied the thin leather belt around his waist, heart in his throat, moving over to the window meanwhile. Then he stood in front of the glass with one hand hesitantly half-raised, debating internally with himself over how much time it took to climb down from a wall. He could _not_ blow this.

 _Arkay, she's good. I didn't even hear her moving over to the window at all, until it opened._ J'hazarr was sure she had not taken his gold. At least, he had not heard it clinking around, but maybe she knew how to move in a way to prevent that. He didn't have time to check. That only solidified J'hazarr's idea that she was not just a thief, but the agent of a Prince.

Just before he leaned forward over the table, hand brushing the now unlatched window to push it open, he saw a dark figure scuttling slowly up the city wall. J'hazarr jerked himself back to press against the wall beside the window. _That was her!_ He hadn't expected her to go over the wall!

He counted to ten in his mind again – one Cheydinhal, two Cheydinhal – and slowly leaned forward to peer out the window again. She was gone. J'hazarr crawled up onto the shelf, knocking into the potted fern and noisily bumping the table as he did so. How had she done this so quietly?! J'hazarr's bulky frame didn't fit in the little alcove very well.

Levitation would have been incredibly useful just then, J'hazarr mused, pushing open the window and maneuvering his body so that he was sitting in it, legs dangling down the side of the building, head bowed under the frame. It took years to master that spell, but J'hazarr did have spells in his arsenal that were nearly just as good.

He wiggled the toes of his left foot and dropped out of the window, and for one second forgot that he was on Very Serious Business as the ground rushed up at him and wind blew past his body. He felt truly alive in that moment, every cell of him quivering with mingled fear and excitement. Then, with a twitch of his right foot, magicka diffused out from his body, an insulating second skin that glowed faintly before fading away, and J'hazarr's descent immediately slowed. There was no whiplash, no sensation of sudden increased air resistance. The laws of his world had shifted and J'hazarr floated down as softly as a feather. He gently landed toes-first, clothing still rumpled and hair still trailing behind him as if he'd been falling at normal speed, but before his heel touched the ground J'hazarr pushed off again and floated upward thanks to the jump spell he had cast in the window.

His rise was annoyingly sluggish, but it was probably for the best to give the Argonian more headway, he reasoned. There was hardly any breeze at the moment but it probably only took one little shift of the wind to carry his scent her way. J'hazarr reached out to grab the wall as he floated past it and turned his body, vaulting over the top in slow motion. It was again several seconds before he landed on the other side, his weight gradually settling into the soil.

Now, where had she gone? J'hazarr looked about himself for any sign of passage; broken twigs, disturbed branches – Oh, or the giant three-toed impression in the loam. That worked too. J'hazarr stooped down, the layman's idea of what sneaking was, and proceeded forward carefully, moving the branches of bushes out of the way before passing them as he followed the footsteps out to the road.

 

* * *

 

It was a tense walk in the dark for Two-Colors, freezing at every sound. Once she caught a definite whiff of something reptilian and large and dirty and flattened herself into a ditch. She had to lie there for probably ten minutes waiting for – maybe a couple of wild kagouti – to make their snuffling and groaning way past. There weren't a lot of travelers on the road at night. Once she heard whistling and hid again. The man that went past – Imperial or Breton, definitely a solid fleshy human smell, no lighter, spicier smell of mer – chinked and clinked in his chainmail as he went, maybe some bandit or mercenary. He had no idea she was there, dark shape among dark shapes, and she went on her way untouched.

No hurry. She had all night and all day. It would be better to arrive at Balmora the second night, when she could make her way to the corner club in the dark, without anyone remarking the big heavy bag tied around her waist.

 

* * *

 

Najanti lay on her belly on the broad limb of an oak tree, tail hanging down like a vine. She idly curled it, up and down, up and down. She was a sleek Suthay-raht speckled with little black rosettes over her mud-and-sand pelt, but most her was covered in black clothing over leather armor. Her leather gloves were fingerless for dexterity and she wore no boots over her long footpaws. She waited with her fingers laced on the branch, chin on her fingers, green eyes half-closed as she listened for footsteps below her perch, which almost extended out over the road. There wasn't much wind tonight, and when the breeze did come up it came from the South. In any case, if she didn't catch a whiff of whoever-it-was, her partner on the ground was sure to.

One naked ear twitched upward. _Whistling prey approaches._ Najanti's tail retracted, curling up against her thigh, and she leaned over slightly to watch. Leaves obscured her vision but she glimpsed the figure moving through the gaps, a large man in chainmail with a helm and sword. Perhaps the two of them could take him, but there was too much risk. It seemed that her partner had reached the same conclusion because she did not hear the signal. Najanti settled back onto her branch, dropped her tail, and waited.

Walks-That-Way lay on his belly in a deeper stretch of ditch on the other side of the road, up to his nostrils in stagnant water and naked except for his loincloth. His crossbow and shortsword sat under a bush, still dry but right where he could grab them as he came up out of the water. The loincloth was mostly only there because Najanti had complained after the first time. He was perfectly happy sitting naked in cold water all night, especially when it was likely to be boring and he could covertly doze in between interesting smells. He had mudded his four little white horns to blend in better. He was a sturdy, muscular fellow, his scales tan mottled with darker brown, readily blending with many different sorts of backdrops.

He squinted his yellow eyes open at a whistle, but on top of the smell of a human male he scented oiled leather, steel, no rust; and even in the dark he could tell it was some burly lout with enough gear on to suggest he might become inconvenient. It wasn't that he was completely averse to committing murder for a good enough prize, but why risk getting hurt for maybe a hundred gold? That was stupid. He might not be an educated betmer, but he could do that kind of calculation just fine. He shut his eyes again, blowing air out through his nostrils when the man had passed. Najanti wasn't going to drop on someone without hearing him slosh up out of the water. She wasn't stupid, either. It was in his opinion one of her better qualities.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors almost missed the lurkers entirely, preoccupied with what she was doing, but she was coming from the North and the wind blew Southerly. She was padding softly along the wetter side of the track, so that she could dive into the ditch if needed, when the breeze carried to her nostrils the unmistakable scent of a Khajiit, female, and an Argonian – definitely male, strong and healthy. She froze, swearing silently but with passion. It might be this way, that way with a Khajiit, some had sharper noses than others; but it wasn't a question of whether he would know she was there, only when.

She was too close to cross the road without being noticed. The wind could change any time. Two-Colors quickly untied the string from around her waist, stifling a groan of relief as the weight came off, and stuffed the sack of bracers under a bush. Maybe she could get away with only a light beating and circle back around on the Khajiit's side to get them, or go ahead far enough to wait it out. The big bastard hadn't been wrong, she was homely; he probably wouldn't rape her if he had a female partner. After a second's thought she emptied most of her gold in a small pile atop the bracer bag, too. Had to leave enough to be plausible. Maybe twenty septims.

 _Hurry up, get away from where you hid them._ She crept forward as before. There was always the slim chance that she could creep past his hiding place. His scent was muted enough that he was probably partly or entirely underwater. She would circle back on the Khajiit's side and wait for them to leave and collect her prize again. It would work. It had to work.

Najanti's ears pricked upward at the faintest of rustles. She was half-certain that it was a rabbit or scrib or something, small as the noise was, but she leaned to the side to look out anyway. Her eyes scanned the road, then the shrubbery at the side of the road. A grin cracked her narrow muzzle when she saw the figure slinking through the wet ditch at the far side of the road, clear as day to the Khajiit's eyes. Najanti could only just see the top of a flat, drab-olive head, but it was enough to see that she was female and small. The Argonian had obviously scented them first and was being cautious. Najanti scanned the road again, ears high and straining for any indication that the girl was not alone, but found nothing.

She waited until the Argonian was almost to Walks-That-Way's hiding place before dropping from the branch. It was a ten foot drop but she landed easily with a soft thump, bending her knees as she hit before springing back upright and sliding her long dagger from its sheath. It glistened as if wet in the dull moonlight, weak shockbite enchantment fully charged. Rather than crash into the brush, she would wait for Walks-That-Way to drive the girl up toward the road.

Walks-That-Way squinted his eyes open at the scent of something female and his own species. After a second he could spot the movement off to his right. She was dark on top and light on her throat and palms, showing a flash of paler color only every few seconds. She obviously hadn't spotted him, trying to pad across on the slope in front of his hiding place. She was carrying a knapsack. It seemed unlikely she had much worth stealing, her netch leathers weren't fancy, but on the other hand she was moving like a thief – and maybe she was being so stealthy because she was carrying something valuable, looking to fence it in Balmora. Walks-That-Way had no love for Guild Thieves and their snotty attitudes and their stupid rules.

He waited until she was just in front of him, then planted his feet on the bottom of the ditch and surged upward, opening his arms. The girl squeaked and fell right on her ass, doing a sort of undignified crabwalk back up onto the road with her tail flailing and hitting her own ankles.

Two-Colors' panic was in large part feigned. The more they thought they were in control, the more likely she was to get away. She hoped. She already knew the Khajiit was over there, but the gleam of the knife made her heart leap into her throat. Had she calculated wrongly and they were just going to cut her throat and toss her in the ditch?

_Oh gods, oh gods, I've finally outsmarted myself for the last time, I'm gonna die in the dirt in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and nobody will ever even know about the bracers! Fuck!_

“The bag, if she pleases not to have her throat slit,” Najanti purred, stepping toward the Argonian. She held up one palm, fingers curling back. _Gimme, gimme._ She brandished the knife to be sure the girl would see the glint of the blade. The best case scenarios ended with no dead bodies. That way, the two of them could perhaps work in the area for longer before the guards bothered to increase their patrols.

“Oh, please don't hurt me, Sera!” squealed Two-Colors, voice high-pitched and loud. She fumbled her knapsack off and got up to her knees, remembering not to roll up gracefully, scrambling around as awkward as she could make it. She held the bag out at full extension of her arms. “Take it, take it!”

Behind her, Walks-That-Way collected his crossbow and wound it in a leisurely fashion as he stood on the side of the road, producing a gentle creak. His big friendly grin gleamed in the starlight.

Two-Colors noticed, glancing back, that the other Argonian had all his teeth. A welcome gnawing resentment displaced fear at once. _Oh yeah, I bet nobody ever messes with mister I'm So Tall._

“Be quiet,” Najanti hissed, snatching the bag from the Argonian's hand. She did not move any closer. Only when Walks-The-Way had come up did she allow her eyes to move away from the girl so that she could rifle through the bag wedged in the crook of her arm.

There wasn't much, only fifteen, twenty gold perhaps. Najanti felt around for anything hidden, noticed several long, thin objects in the lining that were obviously lockpicks and probes. Najanti could smell the metal. Her nostrils flared. Something else had been here recently, a strong enchantment that smelled of fire and spice and daedric steel.

She raised her head and grinned cruelly, ears going flat. One of her teeth had been capped with gold.

“Stupid, stupid Thief,” she said, casting the bag onto the dusty road. “Where is the thing she has hidden? Khajiit knows that she scented us first. Khajiit saw her creeping. Show us quickly or die.” Walks-That-Way's smile widened as he listened to Najanti. Oh, they'd hit the jackpot, had they? It just went to show that it was always worth checking.

 _Shit,_ Two-Colors thought. _Well, it was worth a try._ She came up running, sprinting up the road toward Balmora. Even now she thought of those gold teeth and was annoyed. She wanted a gold tooth. Two, even.

Walks-That-Way was taken by surprise as the Thief suddenly took off running. She was a fast little thing, he had to give her that, he thought as he took aim at her legs. Important not to let her get too far off. He pulled the trigger. The thing went _snap-boing_ as it fired the quarrel, which must have scraped one of her shins because she checked for a second, hopping as the very faint scent of blood struck Walks-That-Way's nostrils, but the quarrel _plonked_ into the dirt.

Two-Colors hissed as pain blossomed in her left leg just below the knee, next to the dew claw. For a second it buckled and she dropped a hand to the road to catch herself, skidding around that pivot point until she faced back down the road. Crossbows again!

“Damn it,” Najanti growled, sprinting after the Argonian. She kept to one side of the road so that Walks-that-Way could fire again. “Don't let her get away! Last thing we need is Habasi on our backs.” If she had been any other traveler Najanti would have let her go; they'd eventually sniff out the thing she'd hidden, but if there was any possibility the Argonian was Thieves Guild...

Two-Colors, supported on one hand and two feet, dust swirling around her, was face to face with a charging Khajiit carrying a blade that she could feel crackling with enchantment even from here. She flicked out her knife as she did a forward tuck and came up to her feet. She stutter-stepped to the side to try and get the woman between her and the other Argonian – sound of creaking gut-strings, crossbow nearly ready -

And then her nostrils flared at a familiar and unmistakable scent about a half-second before Walks-That-Way caught it. The Ohmes-raht leapt from the brush behind the big Argonian, sans armor, rising higher than any ordinary mortal could possibly have jumped.  Then his feet hit the road and he hurled himself at the male with his dagger held underhand. Walks-That-Way grunted in startlement and started to turn, raising the crossbow, much too late.

“I don't fucking believe it,” growled Two-Colors.

J'hazarr's knife plunged into the Argonian's left side below his ribs as J'hazarr himself slammed into the man. He heard another _snap-boing_ far too close to his head for comfort, but the quarrel was sailing up into the sky. J'hazarr slapped his left hand to a scaly arm in a dancer's embrace as they tumbled to the ground. He dug in his fingers and squeezed, felt the magicka pouring out from his palm and sinking through flesh. He'd wasted most of his magicka on silly jump spells and slowfall; this health drain was nearly all he had in him.

Najanti heard the sound of someone slamming into Walks-That-Way, but she could not spare a backward glance. She feinted instead at the Argonian, slashing at her right side but drawing her blade down in a sweeping arc and up again in a cutting draw toward her left shoulder. She didn't need to stab with this weapon. A touch, even to her opponent's armor, might be enough to stun her.

Two-Colors didn't try to dodge directly; she dropped to one hand and tried to kick the Khajiit's legs out from under her instead. The second cut whistled past her head, and she felt the power crackle near her ear-patch on that side. The other Argonian was on the ground, a wordless hiss his last sound as he writhed in the grip of the Ohmes-raht’s spell, the iron stink of his blood filling the air.

Najanti's leg went out from under her and the Khajiit dropped to squat on one foot, catching herself with her dagger-hand. Then she kicked at the Argonian's chest with the same foot that had been swept out from under her, tail flying out in an arc for counterbalance.

Two-Colors was knocked flat on her back in the dirt, wind knocked out of her. She kept her grip on her dagger as she tried desperately to roll away, wheezing. Who the hells even knew what the big bastard thought he was doing here? Had he _followed_ her? How!? She was certain a Khajiit's nose couldn't possibly...

Footprints. There were scuffed footprints in the dust from her, from the Khajiit, from the male Argonian. She'd probably left a trail in the damp ground that any idiot could follow and he'd just trailed right after her all the way from Caldera. Two-Colors was consumed with furious humiliation as she realized what a fool she had been.

J'hazarr held the knife into the struggling body, tail thrashing, face twisted up in a feral grimace. Hot blood trickled out onto his fist, ran in black rivulets down his arm to soak his sleeve. He rode out the jerks and the twitches with his other hand clamped on the Argonian's arm like a vice. When he could no longer feel the life-force of the man pouring into him and when the crossbow had sagged out of the Argonian's hands, J'hazarr released the man and picked himself up. He was about to reach for his knife to pull it free of the body when his hand changed course for the crossbow instead.

“Hey, Khajiit!” he called out, setting the nose of the crossbow onto his shoe while he wound it. He leaned over to snatch up a quarrel and leveled the crossbow as he stood, turning to face the others down the road.

Najanti brought her leg back under herself and slashed from her squatting position at the space Two-Colors had only just vacated when she heard a voice pierce the night. Her eyes flicked sideways and she froze when she saw the man standing there with her partner's crossbow. She rose to her feet and rapidly backpedaled from the Argonian, holding her blade out and away from herself in a signal of surrender.

Najanti's eyes then dropped to the corpse behind the man as he strode toward her. Her eyes narrowed but her lips remained pressed firmly together. When she raised her eyes again they were hard, without any emotion other than a quiet rage.

“Khajiit will make it worth his while if he lets her live,” she said evenly, lip pulling back in a cold smile. Her ears were very still, forward-facing, and her eyes glided slowly from the crossbow to his face.

“Drop that first,” J'hazarr said. The Khajiit did so without hesitation, flicking the knife away into the ditch at the side of the road so that the Argonian could not easily have it. If she were going to die, she'd rather it be as painless as possible.

Two-Colors finally managed to gasp in air, then kipped back onto her feet, well out of the Khajiit's reach. Her eyes traced the path of the thrown knife, then flicked back to J'hazarr as she lashed her tail once. She wasn't sure which of them she would rather see dead. Probably in cold logic it ought to be the woman. J'hazarr had spared her twice already, damn his eyes.

Maybe she ought to keep running. Maybe he wouldn't find the bracers in the ditch and she could still salvage this. If she stuck around it seemed just as likely he'd try and beat it out of her as anything else. He was clearly deranged and there was really no predicting what he would actually do next.

Or he could just casually look around the immediate area until he smelled something daedric. That would probably work, too. Either way, her odds of retaining the bracers seemed poor.

_If I'm going to lose them anyway, why stick around and get hurt again? My leg still smarts. I can pick him up when he leaves Caldera. He's got to go back for his armor, right?_

Of course, if she wanted to run to Caldera she'd have to get past J'hazarr. Hooray. Two-Colors stayed where she was, panting.

J'hazarr's eyes slid toward the Argonian; the rest of his head belatedly followed. She seemed to be holding her weight on one leg. So she was injured; probably couldn't get far from him on foot. His cold rage at having been “betrayed” by her rose to the surface again and his face tightened. He pointed the crossbow at her.

The female Khajiit cut her eyes to the Argonian in astonishment, one brow quirking, but she was smart enough not to say anything.

“Tell me the truth this time, little brat. Why do you want the bracers so badly? Who are you going to give them to?” J'hazarr asked. There was a slight edge to his voice, but otherwise it was without emotion.

Two-Colors blinked, too startled to be offended. _Little brat._ She stared down the length of the crossbow quarrel, heart thumping in her ears, then up at his face. Well, who cared if he knew? What did it change?

“I killed another Thief,” she said. “If I don't bring them to Habasi she'll have me killed.”

J'hazarr frowned. _Who the hell is Habasi?_

“Are you telling me,” he said slowly, that cold fury leaking into his voice, “That all of this was over some _Thieves Guild_ bullshit?” His tail flicked once and then did not move.

“Oh sure, it's bullshit to _you_ ,” she snapped, hands on her hips. “Mister big betmer with his spells and his armor and his mace. I am nothing, no one, and Sugar-Lips' reach is long. If she decides she wants me dead there is no place in Vvardenfell that I can hide. I want to live and -” she deflated slightly. “Balmora is the only place I've ever been. Until two days ago.”

J'hazarr's gaze didn't soften at all, but he felt a pang of... something, in his chest. It wasn't guilt, that old friend he would know at a glance. It might have been pity.

If she wasn't a cultist – and she still could be, there was no proof that she was telling the truth now – then the Argonian standing before him could be any number of things. She might be an orphan who had turned to thieving because she saw no alternatives. Perhaps fate had forced her hand somehow; in a place where having scales or fur often meant no hope of a well paying job, of course she felt like she had no choice.

But there was always a choice. Most people just couldn't see the options beyond their own egos, beyond their fear of the unknown, beyond their own laziness.

“Ah, stupid girl,” the other Khajiit said, smirking and shaking her head. “No wonder she soldiered on even after detecting us.” Her grin broadened with obvious schadenfreude as she turned to look at the Argonian, gold tooth shining in the moonlight. “One hopes that Habasi strings the little thief-killer up by her guts.”

“You know this Habasi?” J'hazarr asked. The Khajiit shrugged.

“Of course, Serjo. Khajiit plies her trade on the road and not in Balmora just to avoid her.”

“Do you have any healing potions?” he asked, walking slowly toward her. He could sense that she was not a mage as he came closer.

“No... She does not.” The Khajiit's ears flicked back and she glanced from him to the Argonian in some confusion, perhaps wondering if he wanted to heal his acquaintance. J'hazarr nodded.

“Good. Then you'd better hurry along to Balmora before you bleed out, and give Habasi my regards.”

The Khajiit's eyes widened in horror as understanding sunk in. She backed up one step, hesitantly, then turned to run. J'hazarr hadn't used a crossbow in years, but he was only a few feet away from her. He lowered the crossbow and pulled the trigger. The string snapped and fired a quarrel directly into the Khajiit's left thigh, through her leather armor. It penetrated flesh and possibly bone with a heavy wet _thunk_. The Khajiit dropped and curled up like a roly poly, screeching so loudly that J'hazarr heard the bushes rustle as some animal fled. ¾ of the quarrel protruded from the front of her thigh.

Two-Colors figured it out before the Khajiit did. By the time he had the word “hurry” out of his mouth she was already halfway across the road, headed for the ditch, the bushes, and cover as fast as she could limp. By the time the quarrel actually hit – she heard the scream – she was just a rapidly vanishing tail as she slid on her belly into a dense thicket of... something bitter-smelling and spiky. No, she actually knew this one, she'd seen it at the alchemist's. Bittergreen. It was funny the things you remembered when you were fairly sure you were going to die. It scratched at her scales without getting through, though some of the little thorns remained caught in her armor. She had to sheathe the dagger to use both arms. Fat lot of good it would've done her anyhow.

J'hazarr turned, looking for the Argonian, but she was already gone.

“Damn it all, I wanted to talk to you!” he called out, raising his voice to be heard over the hysterical moans of a Khajiit possibly going into shock. He turned back and walked calmly to the corpse of the male Argonian and steadied the body with one foot while he bent to yank out his knife. He had to pull hard, causing the body to jerk, and a weak torrent of blood gushed out after it. He wiped the dagger on the Argonian's damp loincloth, then looked around at the road.

The female Argonian's knapsack was lying nearby. The Khajiit was making a weird noise that almost sounded like gasping laughter, but she had picked herself up and was hobbling down the road all stooped over with her hands hovering over the quarrel. She must've known that she'd bleed out faster if she removed it. Every step would be incredibly painful. He felt a little sorry about that, but there'd been no other way to keep her from doubling back to interfere.

He sheathed his still-dirty dagger and went to pick up the bag while still holding the crossbow. He realized as soon as he picked it up that it was too light to hold the bracers. J'hazarr cursed under his breath.

_They have to be nearby. She came here directly after robbing me. There wasn't time to stash them anywhere else. But gods, it'll take forever to find them in this dark, on this long stretch of road..._

“Hey!” he yelled to the air. “I'll trade you this bag of yours if you tell me where the bracers went.” He jiggled it for effect, although the coins inside hardly made any sound.

Hidden in the brush, Two-Colors rolled her eyes. Oh yes, she'd just stroll out there where he could shoot her. The weak jangle of the knapsack reminded her of another problem – her stack of coin that was with her bracers. She swore under her breath.

If she was going to keep chasing him, looking for another chance – and she had no choice but to do it, even as terrifying as he was – she needed her food and tools. She also needed her gold. If she refused to cooperate and just let him find them himself he'd have the bracers, and her gold, and her knapsack, and she'd be stuck hunting foragers for food in the wilderness, which would slow her down.

Two-Colors wriggled out the other side of the thicket and crouched low behind it, still hidden from view.

“I left my gold with the bracers,” she said, her voice muffled but the direction discernible. “If I tell you, will you put it back in the bag?”

She hated, _hated_ to ask it. That was what big sadistic assholes like him were like, they'd make you ask and then not give you what you asked for because they enjoyed it. Even if they didn't need it. Even if they didn't want it. They'd break it in front of you and laugh. She could already see him scattering her coins through the water just to see her scrabble for them.

“Sure,” J'hazarr said, in a friendly _and would you like sugar in your tea as well?_ sort of voice. He held the crossbow down at his side. He didn't even have any more ammunition for it. He just didn't want _her_ to pick it up, although he wasn't quite sure she'd even be able to lift the thing.

Yep. She could hear it in his voice. Loathing churned in her guts, but what choice did she have? She couldn't outrun him with a gimp leg. She couldn't outrun a crossbow bolt even without one. She had not noticed how many quarrels there were or weren't.

“They're under the comberry bush by the deeper water,” she said. “In a bag.”

She sounded as if she were speaking through gritted teeth, because that was exactly what was happening.

“Ah, thanks,” he said, and after glancing around and squinting into the dark, he trotted off toward what looked like a sheet of black glass. Whitish foam clung to the reeds and grasses at its rim. He held his arm out for balance as he went down the slope, then hunted around for the comberry bush. Mud squished under his shoes. They were probably ruined.

“You don't have to do this, you know,” he said, holding his voice up to be heard across the road. “I know you _think_ this Habasi can hunt you down from anywhere in Vvardenfell, but its extremely unlikely she actually cares enough to put in the manpower. She sent you on this quest to kill you because she knew she couldn't do it herself if you really wanted to remain hidden.” He tossed the crossbow down on a neighboring bush and shoved aside branches of the comberry until he had cleared a path to the bag.

He squatted as he shoveled out the gold coins and transferred them to the knapsack. Then he stood without taking up the crossbow again and slung the smaller bag containing the bracers over his shoulder. Climbing back up to the road, J'hazarr could still hear distant wailing, but it was soon blending in with the crickets and other soft noises of night. He tossed the knapsack across the road, closer to the side her voice had come from.

Two-Colors was silent in trembling rage for a second, not even twitching at the sound of the bag hitting the ground. Her one last chance, her one glimpse of hope, just another lie from someone else who didn't take her seriously? No. No. He wouldn't take that away from her. Bitter words burst from her mouth as she sat curled in on herself behind the hedge, arms tight around her knees.

“But I had them,” she hissed. “I had them in my hands. Those idiots never would've known I was even there. And if YOU hadn't come in with your big stamping boots and been so damned righteous, so damned important, I could've walked in and put them on the table in front of her and she would have to honor her promise or lose face. She can't lose face. After nineteen years of fucking misery I had one chance. Every Thief in every town in Vvardenfell would know me as the one who brought the bracers, and I could go wherever I liked. No more swimming through shit for a tiny share. No more getting pushed around by assholes like YOU. And don't kid yourself, you're not better than any stupid thug in Balmora. Well, now you have what you wanted. Does that make you happy?”

J'hazarr's fingers loosened around the bag in his grip and his shoulders sank as he listened, a gradual deflation. He was silent for a moment after she finished, gazing out at the bushes from which her voice had come with pursed lips and lowered eyelids. His black eyes betrayed little of his thoughts – that perhaps, just this once, he should give up the artifacts. Would it really hurt in the grand scheme of things?

Yes. It would.

“It doesn't make me happy,” he finally said, squaring up his shoulders. “But the evil to be wrought with these bracers is greater than the value of your life.” He could supplement this callous fact by explaining that The Fists of Dagon's Might enabled the wearer to capture the soul of a sapient being. Whoever sought such an artifact would certainly use it to evil ends; it had no other use. He had to consider her life against the hundreds of others who might find themselves permanently denied their destined resting place, a fate far worse than death.

It would be a cold comfort, he knew, so J'hazarr did not bother.

 _Everyone's always so happy to remind me how much my life is worth,_ Two-Colors thought bitterly. Arguing wouldn't change his mind; she was angry, not stupid.

Still - she had to know. She couldn't just not ask.

"What are you going to do?"

He hesitated. J'hazarr would prefer to be rid of the Argonian for good, but she would follow him by scent if she wanted to. He could not prevent it, unless he wanted to scrape up the gold to pay a mage to teleport him out of the city. But even then she could find out where he had gone by asking.

“I'm going into the foyada North of here to find a fissure I can drop the bracers into. I'm not really sure that even magma can destroy a daedric artifact, but at the very least it prevents mortal hands from ever touching it again.”

Two-Colors was stunned into silence. Destroy something daedric? Something whose value was so high it could hardly be counted? Ridiculous. Impossible. He was just trying to get rid of her so he wouldn't have to kill her. For some reason he seemed not to want to do that most of the time, in whatever passed for reasoning in a crazy mer's brain. Not that she planned ever to get within his reach again if she could help it.

He still scared her. She hated admitting that even to herself, but it was true. If she busted her ass maybe she could steal enough to buy passage to Cyrodiil. It wouldn't take that long. It would be starting from scratch, but was that really worse? What was Balmora to her?

 _It's more than Balmora now, damn him. I won't be beaten this time. Not by him, not by Habasi, I don't care how worthless they all think I am._ Water stood in her eyes again at that thought, but fuck if the big bastard was going to know _that_.

She hissed between her teeth, low and furious, and said nothing.

J'hazarr thought of trying to help her, but what could he really do? If he offered to take her with him she would only try to rob him next chance she got. He was not going to be bitten twice.

Any gold he gave her toward starting a new life would probably be wasted on drugs or luxuries, and when she ran out of that she'd still have the same problem as before: no skills to put to honest work, no pedigree, no one to vouch for her on top of a bad attitude. She had a difficult life ahead of her regardless of what J'hazarr did.

She hissed and fell silent. The conversation was over. J'hazarr glanced around one last time to be sure he was overlooking nothing, then released the last of his magicka by flexing his toes. Strength surged throughout his legs. He turned back the way he had come, bounding effortlessly along the road as a stone skips over the water. His soggy shoes squeaked and squelched against the firmer road with every landing.

J'hazarr might not be rid of her for good, but at least he had a head start.

Two-Colors did twitch when she saw him soar into view over the hedge, but he was facing the other way, bounding off down the road. Probably it was the same jumping spell that had allowed him to surprise her in the ruin to begin with. That explained how he'd gotten over the city wall in time to ever reasonably catch up with her. She waited until she couldn't hear the sound of his wet feet hitting the ground before she crawled back through the thicket and onto the road to grab her knapsack.  She crawled backward rapidly to peer inside under the shelter of the bittergreen, then felt inside with her fingers when she couldn't see much in the dark.

All of her gold was there, every septim. She counted silently as she found each coin with her fingers and slipped them back into the padded purse where they wouldn't make noise.  He hadn't taken a single one, hadn't even thought about making her crawl for them. She didn't even matter that much.

And that seemed somehow worse than the other things he had said. Two-Colors curled up around her stupid little bag and her pittance of coin and the frustrating fading smell of daedric magic, hot tears stinging her eyes in earnest now that no one could see her. She hadn't cried, really cried, since her Xihu threw her out. Tears were weakness, and weakness attracted predators as sure as blood in the water called the slaughterfish.

Because he was right, the nameless Ohmes-raht who could kill a mer as soon as look at them and yet cared so little about everything that he couldn't be bothered keeping rust off his armor. Habasi had sent her away to conveniently kill herself because nobody else could be bothered to do it. She was just that worthless. Nothing and no one.

_But I survived, damn it! I survived. I did it anyway. It wasn't my fault he showed up. No one could've predicted that._

She felt comforted a little by that. Habasi had underestimated her.  And so had he, or she never would have come so close - to escaping the first time, to killing him, to stealing the bracers back.

_I wasn't good enough any one of those times but damn it, he's twice my age and twice my size.  Those are things I can plan for. I've been stupid, but I can learn. Next time I will go IN via the window, and make no noise at all. Next time I will travel over stone._

That was enough feeling sorry for herself. Two-Colors crawled out onto the road, eyes narrow as she thought. The gleam of something metal caught her eye in the ditch. She went to look. It was the dagger the woman had thrown away, longer than hers, slippery and shiny with enchantment. It wouldn't fit her sheath. She stuck it in her belt, then went to investigate around the pond where the Argonian had hidden. She skirted well around his corpse on the road. He stank, and she didn't want to meet his dead eyes. She thought she could probably carry the crossbow as far as town, but it was definitely too heavy for her to use as a weapon. It'd knock her flat first time she tried to fire it.

There was a shortsword over there, also too heavy to use but maybe light enough to sell, and an oilskin bag with some food in it, scuttle and jerky and dried fruit, nothing too smelly that would give away someone's position while they lurked waiting for hapless travelers. She stuffed it in her knapsack, hung the crossbow on her back, and carried the shortsword over her shoulder as she started the long walk back up the road toward Caldera. There was no hurry. The big bastard would have his own chores to do before he was ready to go hiking up the foyada.

She still didn't know his name, and he did not know hers. For some reason that did not seem strange to Two-Colors.


	5. Chapter 5

# Chapter Five

 

It was still dark when J'hazarr passed beneath the gatehouse and into Caldera, although calling it that was a stretch. There wasn't actually any gate, just two thatch-roofed guard towers connected by a walkway over the road. He could see light from a narrow window in one of them and knew it must be manned, but there was no one out on the street to greet him. Caldera obviously saw so little crime that the guards had grown lazy.

The lamp outside the inn was still lit, but the door was locked and J'hazarr had to go around tapping on the ground floor windows until he roused the owner to let him in. That was an awkward experience. J'hazarr was dirty and disheveled, mud splattered up to his ankles, burrs stuck to his shirt, dried blood caked on his arm. The Redguard withdrew in disgust and held up the poker he'd brought to the door before J'hazarr could hurriedly explain himself. Luckily the man did recognize him as he shook off the fog of sleep. J'hazarr's tattoos were peculiar enough in a place like Morrowind to stand out in most people's memories.

J'hazarr once again collapsed in his dirty clothes on the bed, this time with the sack of bracers cradled under his arm. He pushed off his wet shoes and let them flop to the floor. But he could not sleep. He laid with his head turned toward the window, watching the grey light of dawn gradually turn to gold. The window had been left open. Now and then a soft breeze caressed his face, bringing with it the stink of a city that had no underground sewer. He heard thumping down below as the Redguard Shenk started setting up for the day.

He imagined the little Argonian limping all the way back to Caldera, probably trying to drag that heavy crossbow back with her to sell. Hopefully she'd spend the gold wisely and get herself healed.

J'hazarr came down a while later, barefoot, the sack with the bracers slung over his shoulder. He'd left them unguarded in his room while he bathed the day before, a mistake he would not repeat. There were a few travelers eating breakfast in the main room and every head turned to stare at the blood-streaked, bedraggled Ohmes-raht Khajiit with the lumpy sack making his way over to Shenk, who was sitting down peeling potatoes at an unused table. He did not seem very pleased, raising his brows impatiently as he waited for the Khajiit to speak.

“I'll take a bowl of whatever's on tap, and could you recommend me a clothier?” J'hazarr casually asked.

Two hours later he was walking out of the Imperial Laundering Service, oddly named seeing as all of the washer women appeared to be betmer and orsimer. The Argonian who took his things was mud-brown with yellow markings on her cheeks and a row of short little spines above her eyes. Her movements were jerking and birdlike, as if in a hurry, but she was very polite and called him Muthsera. J'hazarr wondered if she was happy.

He returned to the inn wearing the clothes he had bought before the Laundry, soft leather shoes and loose linen shirt and pants that tied shut at the ankles and wrists to keep out the ash. He just threw his other shoes away. He couldn't carry around two pairs.

He spent the better part of that day wiping out his armor, then pounding out the dents with his hammer – Shenk had to come up and say a word to him then about the noise, and J'hazarr had to drag everything outside to finish up. He scoured some of the rust with a chain cloth, although not very thoroughly. Then he bought wax from the local smith and spent several hours applying it up in the room. He carried the bracers with himself always.

By the time dusk closed in on Caldera J'hazarr's armor and weapons were both shiny and clean in the parts that weren't rusted. It was still a bit banged up, but the larger dents had been straightened out. The new buckle on the cuirass would have to wait. He had ten gold to his name after his purchases, and he had to wait until tomorrow for his laundry to be finished. J'hazarr left the bracers alone long enough to go out to the hall, where the window on the top landing had a view of the city.

He left his door open and leaned out the window, arms crossed on the sill, and looked out to watch the guard moving down the street lighting lanterns. Smoke curled up from chimneys and disappeared into the darkening sky. Each bright window marked a hearth-fire around which a family would gather for their evening meal. After staring in a sightless sort of way for a very long time, J'hazarr finally pulled himself inside to go to bed.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors was only a few yards up the road when it clicked in her mind that she had been lying under a thicket made of bittergreen. Which she had seen at the alchemist's. Which meant someone would pay her for it. She hurried back, cursing the pain in her leg, then paused to wash it in ditchwater and daub mud on it when she realized the cut in her shin was still bleeding. Almost no one had armor that would cover an Argonian's lower legs, nor a Suthay-Raht's. She wouldn't get sick. She'd never been sick. Most Argonians did not catch things easily, and she had been exposed to every filthy thing that died or shat down a drain in Balmora.

She ate some of the dead Argonian's food, shoved the rest in with hers, and stuffed the bag with as many bittergreen leaves as it would hold, sitting on the road with her leg straight out as she worked. They didn't weigh enough to make a difference, and maybe she could barter them for a cheap healing potion from an alchemist. She was already planning it out in her mind, feverishly working over what she would need.

A water skin, because if he was going to where there was lava it would be dry (which was much worse than it being hot). A little more food. A sheath for her new knife. She would keep the old one as a backup. Maybe a blanket to lie between her and the dirt, to keep her armor cleaner. She couldn't see a reason for that fat blanket thing he'd been sleeping on, and anyhow it was too bulky, unless she was going to chase him right up into the cold mountains. No point in trying to get better armor; nothing she could both afford and carry would turn a mace or a spell. She'd just have to not get hit. He wasn't so fast. If she saw him coming her chances weren't that bad. Better yet if he never saw her.

Maybe it was time to invest in some poison. A stamina drain, a magicka drain, something cheap and not lethal. He had done some work to keep her alive, hiked all the way to Caldera carrying her, bought her food and healing, and if she was completely fair – and she really, really didn't want to be completely fair, not right now – he'd probably saved her from the bandits, too. He could've waited until they'd killed her, killed them both and taken what he wanted, but he hadn't done that.

So, as much as she hated him, she had to acknowledge that she couldn't even try to kill him now. She stole for a living, she would lie in a second if it got her something she wanted, but there were things that Two-Colors would not do. Otherwise she was no better than Habasi, who would cheerfully spend her like a tarnished septim for no good reason.

...But she definitely planned to hurt him. Just a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit. He would be at her mercy, as she had been at his. She was fully aware that she should not feel such vicious enjoyment of that little fantasy, but she still indulged it as she limped back toward Caldera. Oh, he'd never acknowledge that he'd lost, and he'd probably say something pompous and self-righteous about how he was disappointed in her or he'd known all along she was no good, but fuck him, she would know she had won.

Anyway, what choice did she have? If she didn't completely flatten him somehow she had no chance. Even if she could sneak the bracers away, he'd catch up too quickly.

Burning anger kept her going, as it had always done. All the same, it was a very long and painful walk encumbered by her new burdens. By the time she reached Caldera the sun was rising. She was exhausted, pain branching up and down her leg with every limping step, but she had made it. She hauled herself up the main street until she found a shop with the symbol for a general merchant, a pair of weighing scales, and poked cautiously at the door. It opened. Apparently they got up early.

She got eighty drakes for the weapons and then spent it all on a sheath, a blanket, and some waybread made from saltrice flour, plus twenty of her remaining two hundred on a sturdy water skin. Two-Colors nicked a handful of empty canvas bags and a coil of strong, thin rope while the merchant was helping another customer. She paused down the street to tightly roll and stow them, then she limped on down to the Mages Guild to see their alchemist. Somewhat to her surprise, he agreed to trade her a healing potion for her sack of leaves. She drank it on the spot, then sighed as the pain in her leg faded. The scales even grew back.

“What I really need is some fire petals,” he said, as she handed him back the empty bottle. He was a skinny Breton with short blond hair, very pale, looked like he didn't get out in the sun much.

“Where do they grow?” Two-Colors asked.

“Near volcanic vents, usually. Molag Amur has an awful lot of them.”

“Is a volcanic vent where there's lava?” she asked.

“Of course.” The look he shot her said that had been a stupid question. Two-Colors sat on her temper and said,

“Okay, what do they look like, Serjo?”

“Impossible to miss. Here.” He went to a shelf and brought back a crimson petal that glowed white at the outer edges. It cast a shadow in his cupped hand. “They grow on a stalk between ten and twenty inches high, usually, with reddish stems.”

“I don't suppose you'd advance me another healing potion against a sack of those?” she said.

“You are correct,” he said dryly. “But I will give you one for the road at a small discount in earnest of my intent.”

“I'll take it,” she said. That cleaned out another fifty of her remaining hundred and seventy gold, and then she spent another eighty on a bottle of stamina drain that at least ought to last her a good long while if she didn't spill it.

Fifty gold. Fifty gold left. Two-Colors thought it over as she went out of the Mages Guild, looking around suspiciously for any unexpected Ohmes-rahts as she went to lean in the shadow of the tower. She could get a cooked meal and a bath, probably not a bed. Or she could rough it. She had plenty of dried food now. It would probably be harder to find a place to sleep outside here than in Balmora, with its convenient alleys and garbage piles.

On the other hand, every one of these buildings had a thatched roof. It wouldn't be worse than sleeping in trash.

Her mind made up, Two-Colors slunk around back of Shenk's – she could smell where the Ohmes-raht's feet had touched down last night, definitely he'd used that very irritating jump spell - washed up at the pump, filled her water skin, and loitered around the town munching waybread and scuttle for the rest of the afternoon, never getting too far from Shenk's Shovel so that she could keep an eye on it. In full gear he'd probably come out the front door.

When the dinner hour had passed with all of its tormenting odors, she went back of the inn again and made the arduous climb up the wall to the roof above the Ohmes-raht's room. At that point the window wasn't open yet. She heard it click below her as she was climbing the thatch.

As she had expected, the thatch was old and dense and growing grass in parts, but it made a comfortable enough nest as she dug out a hollow with her claws. It was kind of nice, a sweet dirt-and-plant type smell like a garden windowbox. Wood smoke curled out of the chimney nearby, but she had chosen a spot away from the blackened patch that marked its regular path of least resistance. It wasn't bad. Definitely better than garbage. She lay listening to the town for a little while, its quieter voices, its fewer footsteps. Up above her head, the stars were not as bright as they had been out in the swamp, but they were certainly brighter than the sky above Balmora. Masser and Secundus – Jode and Jone, the Khajiit would say – were the same everywhere. The second moon was waning at the moment, a fat crescent. It didn't take her long to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

J'hazarr didn't sleep very well. He had jammed one of the chairs against the locked door and sprinkled various objects in front of the window before cuddling up with the sack of bracers. He was very sure that even _if_ the Argonian could get past all of that without waking him up, she still wouldn't be able to kill him. Nevertheless, J'hazarr found himself jerking awake at every thump in the dark, and there were a lot of those audible from the top room of a big creaky inn.

He got up early to brush his hair and organize his things for leaving, and as soon as he thought Shenk had probably got breakfast ready he went downstairs with the bracers. He moved tiredly, with little animation.

“Not a head in that sack, is there?” Shenk asked, and although the publican's face was impassive J'hazarr could hear the eye-roll in his voice. J'hazarr only smiled in a way he hoped was disconcerting and asked for his meal.

After a rather unsatisfying meal of burnt, unseasoned eggs and hard toast, J'hazarr went to pick up his laundry. He only had the two sets of armor padding and the one set of regular clothes, so he carried them back to the inn tucked under both arms. They smelled of cheap soap, of a barracks he had lived in during some other life. He felt no emotion when he thought back on his days in the Legion, of the people he had known or the places he had gone. After a bit the scent stopped being new and he stopped thinking about it.

It was hours before noon when J'hazarr had packed away the bracers in his larger bag, dressed in his clean padding, and armored up in his sort-of-shiny armor minus the helm, which he again carried in the bag. He would have tipped Shenk for all the trouble, but he did only have the ten gold left, and that was dangerously low.

J'hazarr glanced about the street as he left the inn, but he already knew the Argonian wouldn't let him see her. Hopefully she had learned her lesson and was long gone by now. J'hazarr put her out of his mind as he headed West out of town, along the road he had originally come from. There was no avoiding it. According to his dingy old map there was no way into the foyada near Caldera.

The road cut through a broad valley flanked on either side by the mountains, and even with his jump spell J'hazarr had no chance of climbing those. Occasionally J'hazarr would pass an Imperial farmstead with fields full of corkbulb or hackle-lo. The Emperor Parasols, those big flat-topped mushrooms that grew everywhere in Vvardenfell, dwarfed the few trees in the valley. It was a cool day but he could feel the warmth of the sun on his hair. The smell of damp soil near Caldera gave way to a scent of grass, wildflowers, and sometimes animal dung as he passed a Dunmer tending guar. He'd go fishing next time he saw water, perhaps, but that was going to be a while.

J'hazarr continued on in this way for some time, never looking behind, never thinking of anything other than the sights that he saw or the things he might do when he had finished his task.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors was awakened by the sound of someone rustling around down by the window. She crept quietly over to peer down, not without an unhappy squint as she was reminded how high up she was, and tried to figure out what he was doing. Thump, scrape, rustle... He was picking things up from beside the window...?

Ha! He'd put things in front of the sill in case she tried to sneak in at night again. She'd been right not to try it. Two-Colors was more than a little pleased with this acknowledgement of her previous success. It made the long climb down to the ground somewhat less obnoxious after she had heard him shut the window. At least she wasn't carrying something heavy this time. All her new gear combined weighed less than one daedric bracer.

She loitered around the back alley for a while, brushing straw from herself, getting a drink from the pump, eating a dry breakfast and checking her blanket roll to make sure it was tied tight enough on top of her knapsack. Better let him get a good head start. Caldera was such a sparse town that one, she was sure she could follow his trail by scent and two, if she tried to follow him closely she would be seen. When an hour or so had passed she went down to the end of the row to peer out at the street. No Ohmes-raht. She wandered casually back toward the inn door, nostrils flared, until she caught the familiar smell. He'd apparently cleaned up and got new clothes – different fabric, less rust - although she was pleased to note his breakfast hadn't been much better than hers.

So he was headed West. Well, that was no surprise, she would've lied in his position, too. It just went to show that he wasn't as virtuous as he wanted everyone to think he was. She strolled along the path after him, snuffling occasionally, ears and nose alert for any signs that he had paused to set up an ambush so he could humiliate her one more time.

She made herself scarce whenever she passed a farm, creeping along the ditch on all fours like a climbing frog on the opposite side of the road. Being mistaken for an escaped slave was an excellent way to become an unescaped one for a small Argonian, way out here where nobody would believe that she had been born a freewoman and nobody would listen to her say so. They smelled like mostly Imperials, but some of those would have done what they could to compete with Dunmer agriculture, which meant having their own slaves. Best not take chances. People were the same wherever you went.

There were a lot of new smells to keep things from getting too boring. She tried to remember all the different flowers that she passed and nipped a head off as many as she could, in case she could maybe get the alchemist to explain what they were good for and if he would pay for them.

It occurred to her that maybe this wouldn't be such a bad life. Roaming around out in the open places, collecting up bits of plants and selling them, eating what she found that was good, sleeping on softer ground. Hells, she'd nearly got away with a daedric artifact once. Who was to say she would never get the chance again? It could happen. Maybe she could find something little that would be easier to fence, like a dagger or some darts. In the cold light of day the Ohmes-raht was almost certainly right that Habasi didn't give enough of a shit to even put a price on her head. That burned, oh it burned hot and furious in her guts; it kept her pressing on after him even as the other thoughts occurred.

_After. When I have the bracers. Maybe I won't stay in Balmora. There's nothing to stop me living the quiet life out here, or hells, in Cyrodiil, when I've got money for passage. I won't be any more stupid and ignorant about the outside there than here. It's all outside._

 

* * *

 

J'hazarr detoured from the road toward a little pond when he saw one, hoping to catch a frog for later. Hardly anything lived in the foyada; better to catch dinner now. The pond was only about a foot deep and not even big enough to attract mudcrabs. J'hazarr cast his spell and walked out on the glassy surface, watching the tiny silvery forms of fish dart away from him. It wasn't until he got down to his knees that he noticed a difference in his reflection. A new white scar trailed from his right eye, over his cheekbone and ended at the top of his jaw.

_She actually scarred me, the little brat._ A dull throb of anger came and went like a heartbeat and J'hazarr smiled thinly at his reflection. _Your face looks like a four-year-old tried to draw on a guar's ass._ She hadn't made it any worse.

J'hazarr leaned forward and sat still for a while, left palm flat on the water's surface, right hand poised above it. His tail sat limp and half-curled on top of the water, the hairy part rolling from the occasional ripple that passed under it. Finally he saw what he wanted, a mottled brown creature with a pebbly back that reminded J'hazarr of bubbles in the mud. He flattened his fingers into a wedge shape for the least resistance and plunged them into the water. The frog was darting away when J'hazarr's fingers brushed its leg, and the tiny life drain he released was enough to kill it instantly. J'hazarr pulled it up by the leg and rolled it up in a cloth before putting it at the top of his bag, where it wouldn't get squished and get its guts all over everything.

Noticing the scar got him thinking of the Argonian as J'hazarr got on his way again. She had an opportunity J'hazarr did not: she was young, with her entire life in front of her, and she was wasting it. Completely wasting it. That thought embittered him far more than the scar had.

He took the first fork North when he came to it, toward the mountainous wall of the foyada. It was also the road to Ald'ruhn. J'hazarr was beginning to regret giving up that dagger, because Ald'ruhn was a lovely town to have a bender in.

The grass at the side of the road gave way to grey rock and the path narrowed as the walls closed in. Soon the noises of bird and bug died away, and there was only the occasional gust of wind howling through the foyada. It was beginning to grow dark, darker still because the tall, sheer ledges that rose from either side of the road blocked the sun. It grew colder.

Eventually he came to a place where the ground was scored with fissures from which hot steam rose. Clusters of fire ferns were growing out of the cracks, nurtured by the moisture and heat. The thin leaves were a dull crimson, but the petals glowed dully in the shadows, tinting nearby rock the color of dried blood. The road was coated in a layer of ash here. The steam turned it into thick, black mud near the vents. J'hazarr looked around for a while to see if any of the cracks were large enough to drop the bracers into, but he couldn't hear the burble of lava. Condensation was beading up on his armor and plastering his hair to his skull. The warmth felt nice otherwise, and he was sorry when he had to give up the search and return to the cold of the road.

It would be very dark and very cold in the foyada when the sun set; black, ash coated rock did not reflect light well, and there was only a thin strip of sky visible overhead. J'hazarr stopped before then to find a place to sleep for the night. It couldn't be on the path, unless you didn't mind being caught without cover during an ash storm. A mine or cave would have been ideal, but there weren't any. He settled on a shallow hollow in the rock wall, half-curtained by thorny trama vines growing out of a crevice further up. Bits of wood-turned-charcoal and shards of clay cookware were strewn in the ash there, evidence of other travelers using the hollow for the same purpose. J'hazarr hacked off some of the thinner tendrils of trama to use as firewood, then divested himself of his armor to cook his frog, sitting crosslegged on his bedroll.

He laid the frog out on a flat rock and used his knife to chop off the head, then slit its belly to pull out the guts. The hardest part was peeling the skin away. J'hazarr tossed out the unwanted bits into the road, leaving him with a slippery, pink decapitated body and gut-slicked hands. He wiped them on the same cloth the frog had been wrapped in.

The moisture inside the trama vines prevented them from burning well, but it was enough that they smoldered. He slid the frog on its rock under the smoking vines and waited, huddled under his blanket, watching the orange sky fade to grey. He could hardly see it from where he sat, an overhang of rock and vines blocking his view from above. Every once in a while he could hear the echoing trill of a silt strider, but the noises grew more distant and its thumping feet never approached him. He stared dully at his frog as it cooked, trying not to think about how much like an animal he had become.

_You can't keep this up forever,_ J'hazarr thought. _You're getting old. One day your going to be killed by a dremora or something._ Part of him didn't even care. Another part was terrified of that eventuality, but it was a muted sort of horror that didn't quite break free of his subconscious mind. He'd thrown away his other life. This was all he could do, now. Traveling and killing was all he had known for a very long time.

J'hazarr ate his frog in near total darkness and then tucked himself into his bed. His bag lay at his feet, his armor piled up beyond that. The road was at his left, morning star on his right where he could easily grab it if he needed to, but J'hazarr didn't expect anything to come. A shalk might find the frog guts and follow their scent back to him, but the major foyadas were generally pretty well hunted by travelers.

He turned his head sideways to watch the small slivers of starry sky visible to him beyond the lattice of vines, wondering for the millionth time what Aetherius was like and if that other J'hazarr was enjoying himself in the afterlife this J'hazarr would never see. He fell asleep without noticing it.

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors trailed along after the Ohmes-raht, and as she went she thought about her plans. Obviously she wasn't going to try stabbing him in the face again, she'd firmly decided that. But she had two daggers now, one with shockbite, and enough poison to get a good dose on each. Shockbite wouldn't kill him, but it might slow him down long enough for her to get a good head start.

_Poison the shockbite, creep up and stab him in the leg, follow up with the other one, tie him up while he can't move and leave him a potion. I'm not looking to have him eaten by shalk._ She hated to part with one of her precious heals, but... Well, she probably owed it to him at this point, she acknowledged grudgingly. She could only view the last couple of days with intense self-loathing. _Why am I so bad at everything?_

_I'm not. I'm NOT bad at everything. I can climb a wall, hide by day or night, pass without notice almost anywhere even though I'm an Argonian in a place where Argonians are slaves. I'm fast. I'm smart. Maybe I was born in the trash, but I won't be trash forever. And I have to start doing better somewhere, and it might as well be here._

She was tired from all the crawling she'd been doing, and from recent exertion in general; she'd done more physical work the last three days than in the previous month and a half even counting crawling backward up privies. But the Ohmes-raht would be tired too, and he was old, but not so old that he would have gone from sleeping more than a young person to sleeping almost never, like the crones on the rooftops of Labor Town.

She stuck her head into the pond hopefully, but found nothing big enough to be worth catching. He'd gone away with some kind of small cold-blooded thing that smelled reasonably edible. Apparently he hadn't bought a lot of trail rations. Probably because he'd given away a perfectly good daedric dagger -

_No. No. Shut up shut up shut up._

She didn't like the walls getting closer. There was no place to hide. She could maybe creep along the wall, but it would slow her way down and she would be too tired when she got there. Instead she went more slowly, marking the transition from green grass to cracked dirt and loose little stones that also made it harder to walk soft. The air was colder, but there was fire inside the earth somewhere, she could see the smoke – no, steam, it smelled like hot water and rocks. There were fewer scents of living things here, some dry flamey thing that might be a big beetle – good gods, were there wild shalk out here? She had thought they only lived out in the grass somewhere with the bucolic Dunmer herding them. They were good enough eating, but she wasn't confident in her ability to kill one without being set on fire. She knew the smell of silt strider, though these seemed healthier and fresher than the ones that came to Balmora, still wild and uncaptured. Sometimes she heard them calling off in the distance.

She was pleased to see the long-stemmed plants with the glowing flowers, and she paused as she went to collect some into one of her new bags. Once she had the bracers she wouldn't be able to take the time. Maybe she shouldn't be taking the time now. She was already gambling that the big bastard wouldn't have found a place to dump the bracers before he had to stop to rest. He knew this terrain and she did not.

Well, if they were already gone when she caught up...

She wasn't sure what she would do. Not sure at all. Her stomach twisted up at that thought. He had ended up somewhere North of Caldera after all, she was almost sure, making him not a liar; so he was maybe telling the truth about what he meant to do, too.

_Or maybe he's planning to sell them to a contact in Molag Mar. You don't know._ She had no clear idea where that was or how far, just that it was in Molag Amur somewhere. Ashes clung to her toes as she went further into the dry lands, and the air was colder unless you were right up against the steam vents. By the time the sun went down she was starting to shiver in her netch leather. How could it be cold when she was surrounded by underground warmth? It didn't seem fair.

It wasn't hard to find his camp. He'd thrown away the guts of some small thing, probably whatever he'd caught in the pond. Two-Colors was mildly offended. They were basically inedible now, covered in bitter ash, or she would have picked out the heart and liver and eaten them herself. Obviously he'd grown up rich, that he could just throw away good clean offal. Her stomach growled softly at the memory of fish guts on toast from the cheap food stalls down by the river Odai. Well, she'd be back soon enough. Mind on the job. It was easy enough to trail the smell of guts, and then she could scent the remnants of the cookfire, mouth watering.

He had made camp under an overhang behind a bunch of those spiky dark red vines that were everywhere out here. She stopped to poison the daggers as quietly as possible, teeth gritted to keep them from chattering. Then she crept up very, very slowly, ears and nose open, trying to quell her shivers as she slid beneath the curtain of vines. He was breathing very evenly, but he had been that night in the inn too, and she was almost sure he had been faking it then.

 

* * *

 

A cold wind was picking up, stirring the ash that coated the foyada. The thinner vines, the ones that weren't so thick and sturdy in their age, rustled with its passing. Pebbles rolled down the hills in the foyada outside his hollow. J'hazarr was half-woken by these sounds several times before he learned to ignore them, pulling the blanket up past his eyes so that only a crown of hair was visible at the top of the bedroll. He did not wake when Two-Colors slipped under the vines and crept up to the end of the bedroll where the bag was, heart thumping, dagger in each hand.

_Last chance to walk away and go do something else with your entire life._

_No. I need this. Even if I don't stay in Balmora, I need to see Habasi's face when she knows I did it in spite of her. I'm not going to let him stop me just because he... Because he..._

_Dammit, shut up._

She flicked the end of the blanket back and stabbed at his shin with the shockbite and then the other in rapid succession. She didn't aim for the bone or tendon. If she wasn't going to try to kill him it wouldn't do to cripple him, either.

J'hazarr woke to the agony of electricity surging across his body from his leg out, throwing bright sparks that died on the stone. He jerked upright but his spasming muscles prevented him from grabbing his weapon, and as the shockbite faded he sagged down in his bed.

_Stamina drain,_ he realized as the cotton enveloped his brain. The shock had not been strong enough to burn him, but his fingers twitched uselessly. He was unable to form the spell sign, unable to release the magicka waiting at his fingertips. His muscles grew lax immediately after the involuntary twitching ended. He couldn't raise his head, but he could see the dark shape of the Argonian when he rolled his eyes downward.

“Yuuu,” he moaned, but he couldn't quite get his lips to form the words. His tongue was fat and heavy in his mouth. He felt cold air against his lower body where the blanket had been raised and hot blood trickling from the two stab wounds. He wasn't even aware that he'd been stabbed twice yet. All he knew was a terrible throbbing pain in his entire leg. It was so hard to keep his eyes open. J'hazarr was incredibly tired. _Idiot, you'll die if you close your eyes..._ He knew it but was powerless. His eyes closed to slits and he could hardly see anything past his lashes, but he could hear the wind howling through the foyada.

Two-Colors grinned nastily at the noise he made. Every doubt vanished in a surge of triumphant spite.

“Yes, it's me, you ugly bastard.” She paused to stare hungrily down at his slack face, treasuring this moment. He was completely helpless. She could kill him right now and he wouldn't be able to stop her. _I win, I win, I win!_ she caroled silently.

There was a long scar on his cheek where she had cut him. Her triumphant mood deflated immediately as she looked at it, one claw-tip reaching out to trace it delicately.

“Oh. That's... I did that. Damn. I - ”

_Stop wasting time. Bracers._

She hurried to cut lengths of rope with her dagger and tie his wrists and ankles. That gave her a nasty sense of satisfaction, too, to bind him as he had bound her. She tied his hands in front and plunked down the potion bottle not far from his head. Fair was fair. No one could say she hadn't done the right thing. Except that she'd stabbed him and was stealing from him after he'd carried her ten miles and traded a daedric dagger away to have her taken care of.

_I hate you. Shut up. I was in bad shape to begin with because HE hit me in the face. He stole from me first!_

_You know Calvus would've left you for dead. Twice._

_Yeah, well, Calvus IS dead, and good riddance._

She might not have tied his hands as tightly as she had planned. She kept trying not to look at his face again.

She found the bracers in the big bag he was using instead of a real knapsack, still in the canvas bag she'd been using to carry them. This time she had thought things through slightly better and devised a rough rope harness so she could wear them lashed to her upper body, under her knapsack, with its straps loosened as much as they would go. She wiped her daggers on the vines so that he wouldn't be able to track her by the scent of his own blood. The dusty dry ground shouldn't hold much in the way of footprints. She wouldn't be caught out that way this time.

And then she was out, out and heading back up the foyada at a trot. It was going to be a long walk, but if she passed the farms at night she could make better time. She just needed enough of a head start that he couldn't catch her up.

Two-Colors was extremely pleased with herself for almost an hour. Right up until the wind picked up. It was a soft sigh at first, cold fingers nipping at her muzzle and hands, and then colder and harder, teeth biting into her even through her armor. Her upraised arm only protected her eyes. And then came the ash. It drove against her like a bucket of needles, accelerated by the wind screaming down the narrow walls of the foyada, pricks of cold agony even through hard scale.

_I have to get out of this, damn it. Maybe he won't be able to travel either._

She stumbled over toward the rock wall, groping along onehanded. The steam vents provided momentary little pulses of warmth, but she dared not stop beside one; the ash would flay her alive. At first she thought she might not find anything at all, would die an ash-mummy buried in the drifts that were already growing around her freezing toes, but eventually her questing hand lost contact with the stone as it fell away into a hollow. She tried to shelter her nose from the wind enough to get a whiff inside, but all she could determine was that it was mostly stone, and that nothing alive had been there recently. She groped for the upper edge – it was about four feet high – and ducked down under what proved to be another little alcove in the rock. It wasn't even really a cave, maybe six feet deep.

There were shell fragments on the floor suggesting it had probably held a shalk's eggs at some point, and a tiny ashy firepit, but even those smelled old and dry. She huddled against the back wall, wrapping her blanket around as much of her as she could. It wasn't enough. The ash looked like sideways rain out there now, a solid gray curtain moving from right to left. She was mostly out of the wind, but it was cold, so cold, and no vent warmed her hiding place. She took off the knapsack and the bracers and shoved them up against each side of her in hopes of providing more insulation, but the rock felt as if it leeched all the warmth from her bones. She shook, teeth chattering, tail wrapped tight around her ankles.

She should have paid more attention what he was carrying. He had a fat blanket roll for things like this, and he had things for starting a fire. She hadn't even thought to buy a tinder box or matches and she'd thought she was so, so clever for saving money. _Idiot. Wrong again._

Her toes were numb. Her tail was numb. The feeling was creeping upward through her body. At least it made the cold less painful, she thought. She'd thought freezing to death would hurt less than it apparently did. Not even anger was there to warm her. She felt only cold humiliation.

_This is so stupid. I'VE been so stupid. I should've listened to those nagging doubts and left him alone with his stupid bracers and maybe I could've made it back out of the foyada before the storm. Maybe I could've survived._

Well, he'd probably find them when the storm was over. She wondered if he would be sorry she was dead. It was hard to say. He was so inconsistent about everything...

The world gradually receded out into the gray. Presently she tipped over, a small bundle curled up against her knapsack.


	6. Chapter 6

# Chapter Six

 

The rage that rolled through J’hazarr was muted and distant, thunder on a faraway horizon. _So this is how it ends._ He'd survived cultists and dremora, lightning and fire, and he was about to be stabbed to death by a stupid little street urchin and then all that was left of J'hazarr would be wiped from the face of Nirn forever. He felt surprisingly little fear. Mostly he felt regret that happiness had been so fleeting.

J'hazarr didn't even try to flinch back when the claw brushed his face. He didn't have the energy; not even his pulse had raised. He found his thoughts muddled but he could just barely grasp her words, and they confused him.

_What's wrong with her? Why isn't she killing me?_

He felt more like a passive observer in a dream as he felt her bind his hands and legs, and he actually did close his eyes fully after realizing he wasn't going to die, giving in to the fatigue. He could hear her shuffling through his things, and that lit another fire of low-burning anger. _She's going to regret letting me live. As soon as this drain wears off, I'll.. I'll..._

He imagined bludgeoning her over the head with his morning star, then watching her sag in his hands as he drained the last spark of life from her soul, but neither image brought him any pleasure. He saw her tiny, dull-scaled body flopped limp over unyielding stone and was saddened.

J'hazarr couldn't hear her footsteps as she left, but he was sure she was rapidly moving down the foyada with the bracers. The bed beneath him grew warm and sticky where his blood leaked, while the top of the wounds grew cold as the blood dried on his pants. When he felt the heaviness in his muscles and the fog in his brain begin to melt away, J'hazarr twisted sideways to look at the thing she had set down by his head. _A potion?_

He reached out with his bound hands to clasp the bottle and struggled to sit upright. He uncorked it and sniffed. The Ohmes-raht could not smell quite as well as some breeds of Khajiit, but well enough to recognize it as a healing potion that probably had not been poisoned, unless it was a type he was unfamiliar with. It seemed unlikely a thief as desperate as she had access to any sort of exotic poisons.

He gulped down the entire small bottle and the wounds on his leg pulled themselves shut, a tingle of magicka shuddering down his throat and out through his flesh. Then he picked at the knot in the rope with his teeth until it was loose enough to work his hands free.

 _Does she really think she can outrun me? The idiot,_ J'hazarr thought, picking at the rope around his ankles with quicker, impatient movements. He couldn't believe that tiny body housed such an enormous ego. He almost considered letting her go, once again, but the idea of being bested by a child stung him like nettles. As soon as he was free J'hazarr braced his arm against the rock wall to haul himself up.

It was bitterly cold out of his bedroll. Even in this little shelter the wind drove flecks of ash into his skin and ripped at his lightning-frizzed hair. J'hazarr's tail flicked in annoyance as he armored himself in the dark, working mostly by touch. The steel was horribly cold against his hand, but as soon as he was inside it he was sheltered from the wind and the ash. It was only going to get worse. It was a full on ash storm, now.

He picked up his bag and bedroll and crawled out of the hollow, visor of his helm shut against the ash. Rocks and small branches plinked against the steel as he soldiered on against the wind. He wasn't going to use his jump spell, not yet – the wind was so strong that jumping against it would be a waste of his energy. He could hardly see anything through the narrow slit in all that swirling ash, and for the first time J'hazarr feared that the Argonian would actually get away. He might walk right past her and not even know it!

J’hazarr cursed into the wind. He didn't have the luxury of waiting out the storm. He had to try. He did not know how long he stumbled through the dark. The wind dumped ash into his visor slit, blinding him and gagging him repeatedly. His eyes stung. His throat stung from inhaling it. He was burning up too many calories.

 _This is ridiculous. Damn her, I've got to get out of this storm. There's no way she's still walking in it, either._ He groped along the wall, looking for shelter. He remembered seeing a hollow here and there on his way in. J'hazarr had no idea where he was currently, whether he had passed them or not. After what seemed like hours he found a void where the wall fell away. After patting around the edges to get an idea of the exact shape of the entrance, J'hazarr dropped to his knees to crawl inside under a low ceiling. The clank of his knees hitting rock wasn't even audible over the roaring wind.

He froze when his palm landed on something that was not stone. It was hard on the surface but yielding, fleshy, beneath. He brushed his hand down its length and realized he was touching a scaly leg. A scaly leg connected to a long-toed Argonian foot. He could feel no warmth through the leather glove of his gauntlet.

 _Fuck. It's her. It has to be._ J'hazarr had at first thought the black lumps to be rocks, but now that his eyes were adjusting he could vaguely make out the shape of the Argonian curled up between her bags. He crawled up to her head on his knees, steel scraping against rock, and levered her up with one arm under her armpit. Her long neck hung limp over his arm.

 _Are you dead?_ Inexplicably, it was fear that drove needles of ice through his heart. He shook her, urgently, desperate for confirmation.

“Argonian?!” he barked.

Someone was making noise, somewhere. Something hard against her body, against her cheek – hard and warm. It woke up pain where it touched, pins and needles, dispelling the numb feeling that had gradually crept over almost everything. Two-Colors squinted her eyes open, shuddering once, but it was dark. She could just make out something looming between her and the gray of the sandstorm, a silhouette that she knew. Fuzzy chin-mane around the edges, pointy ears.

“Oh, iss'you,” she slurred, and shut her eyes again. Nothing to worry about, it was just the big bastard again. There was something he was here for, wasn't there? She felt no emotion about it at the moment, which seemed like a relief for reasons she couldn't remember. She was not afraid of him, though she always had been before. That was strange. She didn't have the energy to worry about it. “Bracers're... over there. Left.”

The smell of him was there, steel and flesh and rust and - blood, a little - but it was faint and far away.

 _She's alive._ But not for long.

J'hazarr's arm tightened around the cold lump that he held and his lips drew back over gritted teeth inside his helm. He had to do SOMETHING fast, but there was nothing...! He had nothing to burn, and even if he did, lighting a fire in an ash storm? The shallow cave blunted the wind a little, but not nearly enough. And a small fire wasn't going to raise her temperature fast enough to do a lick of good.

 _Never forget that a spell has other applications than that which is was designed for._ The words of his drillmaster came floating up to the surface and J'hazarr knew what he had to do. It was very stupid, and it might be too late – but she had spared his life when she had the chance to kill him. He didn't even weigh the options. He just started moving.

“I can see that, idiot,” he said impatiently, dropping her and turning to rifle through his bag. The biscuits and jerky were on top wrapped in linen cloth. J'hazarr flung them open, letting the food fall where it would, and bunched up the cloth on a dip in the ground where someone else had built their fire, long ago.

 _Fabric is going to burn through a lot faster than wood,_ he realized. He pulled out his extra sets of clothes, just in case, then his blanket and the tinder box. Hunched over the cloth on his knees, J'hazarr reached deep inside of himself to draw out the magicka. He felt it burst from his body in every direction and solidify in a shield larger than any he had ever cast before. It had to encompass two bodies and a fire. Colored ripples flowed over the shining translucent shell, lighting the hollow with a faint purple glow. The Argonian's scales were black in the light.

Ash pattered against the shield at J'hazarr's back. Half of the granules failed to even make it through, and after the wall of gunk had formed _no_ more ash could make it through. It blunted the wind even further.

J'hazarr felt like he was moving through water, though in reality his movements were incredibly quick – he scraped his knife against the firesteel and the linen caught fire with the first spark. It went up in a blaze, too quickly to last as he had suspected. J'hazarr threw his shirt on top and immediately began unbuckling the straps of his armor, putting them down with rapid but controlled movements to avoid disturbing the fire. With every piece he removed the cold air came rushing in, and by the time he was down to his shoes and padding J'hazarr's teeth were clacking and every muscle was bunched up tight. But the wind wasn't biting thanks to the wall of ash clinging to his shield. It was strange, like being in the eye of a tornado, a little bubble of calm amid chaos.

“S-sorry kid,” he clattered, and started unbuckling the Argonian's armor. Part of him hated himself for what he was doing, seeing – her cheap flax underclothes with tattered hems, the insubstantial, underfed shape of her. She wouldn't have wanted him to see that. J'hazarr gasped when he pulled her into his lap, arms around her chest to press her to his shivering body. He almost dropped her. It was like hugging a block of ice. But he squeezed his eyes shut, whined through his clenched teeth, and wrapped the blanket around them both while the fire devoured his new shirt.

 

* * *

 

Things were very vague, so Two-Colors was at first unaware of what he was doing. Sometimes she thought she was in Balmora in Frostfall, hiding in an alley. Clarity returned in little snatches: magicka tingling down her spine, something purple that faded rapidly; flames licking up; the Ohmes-raht taking off his armor. Nothing really made an impression until she felt herself picked up and moved as if she weighed nothing, and then sudden warmth against her face, against her side, against her legs. It hurt. Gods, how it hurt. Needles pricked her skin as feeling started to return. She groaned into the padding of his shirt as she started to shake. She had no control over it. Vaguely she felt shame, and bit her tongue against a whimper. She'd heard him make some kind of sound. It hurt him, too.

Her fogged brain gradually started to clear and she curled up tighter against him, sliding one arm around his body to hold him closer, insinuating her tail in between them. As the pain faded warmth felt better. Felt wonderful.

 _I'm out of armor,_ she realized slowly. _And so is he._ But though her heart jumped instinctively at any male body that size that close – _bite him get away run now_ \- she knew she was safe. He had saved her again. Two-Colors was suffused with deep shame as she realized that fact, and more as she realized that the primary smell beyond the strong scent of cloth and Ohmes-raht was burning fabric. He burned his other clothes.

She could feel his heart beating against her ear-patch, fast and strong. He felt her sigh.

“I guess nineteen is a kid to somebody as old as you,” she said weakly. “My name is Two-Colors.”

J'hazarr didn't realize it was possible to tremble so violently while simultaneously having one's muscles completely lock up, but it was happening. Slowly, so very slowly, he felt the temperature rise inside their little cocoon until the cold was merely painful rather than numbing. Ash had built up completely against his shield, so there was no wind at all, and the heat of the fire was trapped in the bubble. The air was actually pleasant against his face, where he was not touching her body.

“I'm not old,” he said immediately, slightly offended. He was only forty-one. Then he realized that _was_ old to a nineteen year old. Then he realized that this was the first time he had ever heard her name.

“I'm J'hazarr,” he said, craning his neck to look down at the top of her head with pursed lips. Flames danced in his black eyes.

 _J'hazarr._ It was strange to attach a name to him after... Well, only three days or so, but it seemed so much longer now. Harder to push him off into the category of _just like the rest of them_. Now he had a name.

“Sorry,” she said, responding to his tone, and realized she had just apologized to him for the very least of the things she had done.

_If I'm going to be apologizing for all of it we're going to be here all day. What about the bracers?_

_Fuck the stupid bracers. He is shaking from cold because he is keeping me warm with his body. You can say he's a self-righteous bastard up to a point, but I think if there's a limit this has got to be it._

She rolled her head slightly, not breaking contact with his chest, and a yellow eye looked back up at him, slit pupil dilated to not-quite-round in the dim firelight.

“Why?” she asked. She could just about keep her teeth from chattering now, if she tried. “I don't deserve any of this. I have no value to you. To anyone.”

J'hazarr's brows drew together in minor puzzlement, but then his features smoothed to neutral and he looked away from her, toward the fire. The truth was that he hadn't really stopped to think about what he was doing. There'd been no time for that. Was he supposed to comfort her with some sort of bullshit speech about how every life had value in the eyes of the Divines? J'hazarr felt sorry for her that she felt so worthless, but he wasn't up for giving pep talks. He couldn't spew shit he didn't really believe.

“I just wanted to see the look on your face when you saw me take the bracers back,” he said, one corner of his lip rising in a weary smirk. He glanced down at her without moving his head.

Her visible eye narrowed for a second, and he felt her tail tip thump him in the ribs; but Two-Colors looked up into the slick black eyes, so very tired, so very old for whatever age he really was; and she huffed out air as she relaxed, tucking her head back into his shirt. He'd put his own fat blanket around them both. It still had his blood drying on part of it, she could smell it. She could see bits of food scattered around the floor of the little alcove. He'd been in a terrible hurry. Guilt twanged at her again, a sharp unpleasant little thing.

“Yeah, yeah. You win.” She still felt a reflexive angry burn in her guts at the words coming out of her mouth, so soon after her short-lived victory. She wasn't a different person than she had been two hours ago. That was impossible. But knowing for certain you were going to die instead of just being afraid that you might – that was not like anything else. She felt that she had passed through something greater and darker than she had ever seen. And if you refused something offered three times, wasn't that terrible bad luck?

_Stupid superstition. Who even told you that?_

_Still. Do you want to be like that Argonian on the road, dying stupidly for something that doesn't really matter?_

“How come you don't care about anything?” she asked, voice slightly muffled by his shirt.

What bizarre proceedings. J'hazarr did not feel at all pleased that he had “won.” He wasn't entirely sure what to feel, think, or say with the body of his recent rival pressed against his own. Luckily the Argonian – Two-Colors, he had a name to put to that irritating face now – seemed to have plenty to say.

“I care about things,” J'hazarr said, tonelessly. “Just not the things other people care about.”

He had stopped shivering. Her body might be generating some of its own heat now, but he did not dare remove the blanket and release their trapped warmth.

“So what do you care about, J'hazarr?” Two-Colors' voice was a little quieter. She was starting to feel tired as her body grew warmer, not the dizzy fog she had been in before but really physically weary. _Sneck up. HE just walked all day, got stabbed twice, walked through an ash storm, spent a lot of his magicka and set fire to his clothes to warm up a dying moron._ Talking would keep her awake. Staying awake seemed very necessary. She still acknowledged, reluctantly and against every urging of the part of her brain that was used to surviving on the street, that he would not do anything to her if she fell asleep. Nothing worse than tie her up and either leave her here when the ash cleared or carry her off to watch him throw the bracers down a lava pit, anyhow. That thought burned, oh how it burned, but it made her more alert. And it was inevitable now. Letting go of the idea of the daedric bracers was harder than prying a diamond out of her hand to give to Habasi, but she knew now that she had to do it.

She couldn't see herself just letting him walk away. Not because of the bracers. Because of the everything.

_Worry about that when we've survived the storm._

Her arm was tired. She wriggled around to face the other direction so she could use the other one. Letting go was no idea at all. J'hazarr cringed when she shifted in his lap, but she made it to her other side without incident.

After a second she realized she had no idea where his tail was. Was it freezing out on the cave floor? She had heard if just part of you froze it would fall off. She definitely didn't want to live with knowing that; just looking at his scarred face made her feel something spiky and twisty and painful that was very unfamiliar. Well, if it was he'd probably never say anything. She patted around with her free hand to try and find it so she could pull it up under the blanket.

“I care about surviving this storm,” he said. It was a nicely noncommittal answer and true enough. “I should --” he broke off abruptly, eyes popping wide-open when he felt a comparatively warm hand touch his naked tail. It had been tucked under his thigh, number than the rest of him because it had been uncovered in the storm. Two-Colors felt his entire body turn rigid, fingers of one hand tightening around her arm. He almost shoved her off.

No one had ever touched him there in his adult life. No one.

_She's exhausted. She's probably feeling loopy. Don't get mad at her._

“My shield spell is going to run out eventually and let the wind in,” J'hazarr quickly said. He had to get her off him. He didn't understand why, but he felt panicked all of a sudden. “I think you'd better get into my bedroll before that happens. We'll let the fire warm it first. Hang on.” He tightened one arm around her torso to hold them together so that he could lean forward and grab the bedroll to open it up beside the fire. That was going to die soon, too. He'd have to burn his pants.

Two-Colors stiffened in turn, letting go at once. His tail had been very cold in her hand, but that was forgotten as she felt herself seized by the arm. Blood shot up into her face, into her feet. _Run, run!_

She was too weak to run. Even if he hadn't had her arm. She shuddered, trapped there, waiting for him to fling her against the wall, break her arm, any of the responses she had been taught to expect for a physical transgression. Her tail flapped in place between them. She had no control over that at all.

His words, when he spoke, were completely rational. She heard them through the rush of blood pounding in her ears as he held her tighter for a second. She breathed faster as she tried to fight down thoughtless panic.

“Sss,” she said through stiff jaws, and then tried again. “Yes. Okay.”

She did not like it, but at least he would still have the blanket.

“I , I have another set of clothes in my bag,” she said, trying to keep her voice level and not a breathless whisper. “We can burn those.”

J'hazarr suffered a pang of guilt. His sudden movement had startled the poor girl. He should have figured that she probably had been abused in some way, but that was a thing so far removed from his own experiences.

He moved his pants into the fire, end of one leg first so it would spread slowly.

“Thanks. Hopefully we can make this last for a while.” When he thought that the bed was probably warm, he said in a gentler voice, almost a whisper, “All right, ki-- Two-Colors. Let's move you over.” He pulled back the blanket, breathlessly awaiting the stab of cold, but the air was remarkably warm inside the shell of magicka and ash. He didn't help guide her onto the bed – he was hesitant to touch her more than absolutely necessary – but he did pull the attached cover up to her chin when she was inside.

Moving very slowly, because the shield moved when J'hazarr did and he did not want to knock the ash wall free, he opened Two-Color's bags to pull out her extra clothes and sit them next to the fire for future use.

Two-Colors planned her movement carefully for minimum contact with the cold floor, then shifted: foot on the bedroll, hand on the floor, scoot in between the layers of padding as fast as possible and wiggle until full coverage is achieved. She paused as the Ohmes-raht pulled the cover up, watching him with a wide and unblinking eye. Who _was_ this? It was not the same betmer who had carelessly dumped her in the dirt out in the Bitter Coast, surely?

“There's some food in there if you're hungry,” Two-Colors said breathlessly, crawling down until only the end of her nose protruded from under the cover. He had flung his jerky and biscuits all over and he probably wouldn't eat them now, if he was going to throw away perfectly good guts. At that thought her stomach protested. She risked a claw out of cover to retrieve a biscuit and a lump of jerky and tug them into the bedroll. Her muzzle disappeared from view as she tried to eat them as quietly as possible.

She felt relieved and yet disappointed as her heart gradually slowed. She'd obviously fucked that up. She didn't remember being told not to touch a Khajiit's tail, but it was normally the rule that she didn't touch any part of anyone unless there was going to be a fight. Maybe she'd just missed it because it didn't matter at the time.

It was strange and uncomfortable being that close to another person. And warm. Strange and uncomfortable and warm. The bag wasn't bad, was definitely better than he was getting right now, so why did she wish he were in here with her?

 _Because I am tired and I almost just froze to death and there will never be such a thing as too warm ever again. And it's his bedroll. And it smells like him._ And it did, very much. That should make it completely impossible for her to relax, but she already felt like a scaly puddle as she licked the crumbs of biscuit from around her mouth.

_It's all fucked up. Brain is not working like it should. It will make more sense later._

_Later. Later is when it will make sense._

“I'll keep it in mind,” he said, smiling slightly. He was amused by her reaching out of the bedroll to snatch up food before pulling back again like a mudcrab retracting into its shell. J'hazarr carefully maneuvered himself so that he could sit back against her knapsack, so he wouldn't have to touch the wall, then wrapped the blanket tight around himself again.

It was going to be a long, long night. J'hazarr wouldn't be able to sleep because someone had to watch the fire and keep the shield up. He wondered how many of his new magicka potions he was going to burn through. Briefly he felt annoyed at how much trouble Two-Colors had caused him, but it didn't really matter. He'd suffered far worse over the course of his life.

He idly picked up bits of biscuit and jerky from the floor, eating slowly to pass the time, and burned the Argonian's clothes bit by bit. Twice he had to drink a potion to renew his shield. He couldn't see the sky to know what time it was, but J'hazarr could hear the wind raging outside for a long time.

It had grown quiet by the time the time J'hazarr's chin began sinking down to his chest. It was so dark, the fire nothing more than dying red embers buried in black flakes. The bubble had filled up with stuffy, muggy air. His eyelids snapped open repeatedly – _got to stay awake, got to watch the bracers_ – before gradually sinking down once again. Eventually his eyes shut and did not open again.


	7. Chapter 7

#  Chapter Seven

 

_ The morning air is damp and heavy. A blanket of mist rolls across sprawling fields of stubby golden wheat that has already been harvested and pillowy rows of lavender yet to be cut. A distant line of trees walls the village and its fields away from the rest of the world. The mist winds its way between the squat little commoner houses all clustered around the village center. The square isn't even cobbled, just a circle of dirt around the well. A single dirt road cuts through the village of Lambing Green. _

_ A door creaks open. J'hazarr looks up at a figure standing on the path before her house, flanked on either side by a small garden of herbs. One hand is on the doorknob and she looks hesitantly up at him, dented tin pail in her other hand. The newly risen sun stands just behind, wreathing the house in golden light, splitting sun shafts to either side. It is a woman with long black hair. A pregnant belly bulges out from beneath her flax dress, dyed a pale blue. J'hazarr freezes. _

_ “Just passing through on our way to the Imperial City, ma'am,” Morga says. J'hazarr hears the snap of her reins followed by a snort and a sound of hooves on dirt. His own horse shifts beneath him, but J'hazarr's hands remain clenched on the reins. He has locked eyes with the woman, now recovered from her startlement at meeting strangers in her quiet village. She smiles at him. _

_ “Safe journey, Sir.” _

_ Later Morga would rib him in her callous way, asking J'hazarr if he was sure he'd got the bollocks for this type of work. The people of Lambing Green were a lot of dirty peasants who would toil hard under the sun until their bodies were used up. They'd thank their dead gods for the privilege. They did not question their existence, did not seek the greater truths. They were like animals, Morga insisted. _

_ Her dark eyes haunted him. He could not see their color with the sun behind, but he saw in her earnest smile that she did not for one second believe him to be anything other than a harmless passer-by. _

_ Why had J'hazarr paused? What was it he had been thinking? _

_ What had he felt?  _ **_What had he felt?_ **

 

J'hazarr jerked awake with a gasp, sitting upright against the knapsack. Those dream-memories were always the same, visually vivid but completely lacking in emotional depth. He hated them.

J'hazarr's blanket was still wrapped around his shoulders. He was cold, but not painfully so. He squinted at a bright blue-tinted world as his eyes adjusted to the light. Ashes were piled in a ring around himself and the fire, some blown inward and scattered across the ground after the shield had fallen. His body ached from sitting upright on a stone floor, and J'hazarr groaned as he stretched out his crossed legs. His muscles protested the movement.

Two-Colors was awakened by a sound of indrawn breath. Her nostrils told her she was surrounded by fabric and Ohmes-raht and the faint scent of blood, and one hand reached out to pat the thing in front of her. Why was she completely inside a fat blanket roll?

Memory trickled back in. Her mind was clear as wakefulness gradually came sneaking back. She did not remember falling asleep at all. She did clearly remember everything that had happened yesterday, unfortunately. She covered the end of her muzzle with both hands. That's right, she'd stabbed the Ohmes-raht in his sleep again – J'hazarr, his name was J'hazarr – and taken the bracers and escaped right into a deadly ash storm, and she had been about three quarters of the way to dead from the cold when he had found her. And held her until she was warm. And tucked her up in his own bedroll.

She poked her head out cautiously, half-afraid he would be frozen himself, but he was upright and breathing, stretching out his legs. She huffed out a sigh of relief. Then she pulled her head mostly back into the bedroll and began to travel inchworm-wise toward her discarded netch leather, fabric scuffling along the stony ground. He was just as bad off, with nothing left but the padding on his body. He'd burnt it all to keep them warm. To keep her warm. None of this would have been necessary if she hadn't been so stupid.

The bracers were still in their bag on the floor beside him. It wasn't too late, she was warm and could move faster than he could at all times but especially now, maybe if she was quick she could grab them and get out. What had been wise last night seemed so hard in the morning!

_ No, you idiot. You're done with the bracers. Let them go. _

_ But – but - _

_ Let them go. You've decided who you want to be, and it isn't that. After all he's done for you, you're ready to toss it away so easily? _

_ I hate him. _

_ Doesn't matter. He still did it. _

Obviously confusion had not fled with the ash storm. Two-Colors snaked out a claw to retrieve her greaves and belts first. Last night was last night and this morning was this morning and damned if she wanted him to see her in her flaxens again. Then she had been too grateful to be alive to feel shame that he had seen her skinny tiny useless body. This morning she remembered in squirming red detail what he'd had to do – pulled off her armor, pulled off HIS armor, and had she really tried to grab him by the tail? Oh, gods, she had. Scales did not show a blush, but her muzzle felt hot with humiliation. And now he looked stiff and miserable and of course he did, he'd sat up keeping the fire going the whole night.

_ He told you your life was worth less than the bracers, but it's not the bracers he stayed and kept the fire for. Nothing you can ever do will ever repay this. Nothing. You are in debt until the day you die. _

J'hazarr turned to look at the source of the scuffing sounds, then looked away to give her privacy when he realized she was getting dressed. He felt old and creaky as he turned to crawl out of the alcove, blanket draped over his back, pebbles grinding into his knees and palms. Outside in the foyada he clambered stiffly to his feet, letting the blanket drop from his shoulders to shake it free of ash. Snipping off the end of his tail with a pair of scissors seemed more appealing than putting himself into his cold steel armor, but it was something he had to do.

“ What are you going to do now?” he asked, one hand braced on the small of his back. He blinked up at the bright blue sky, sun not yet visible over the mountains.

As soon as he was outside she crawled free of the bedroll to more easily slide into her cuirass. It was a little cold, making her squirm, but she now had a new barometer for what cold was and bit her tongue. J'hazarr wasn't complaining, out there clutching his back like an old man.

Two-Colors shot a last look at the bag the bracers were in and then looked away as she rolled the bedroll up tight. She tugged at her daggers to realign them. Then she checked the inside of her knapsack habitually because someone else had touched it, then felt another pang of unaccustomed guilt. All he'd taken were her clothes for the fire. It looked like he hadn't even eaten anything. Or he'd eaten off the floor after all. That must be really low for a nob like him.

“ Dunno. What town's closest here?” She had no idea where she was now. “I'm dressed.” She put her knapsack back on, kneeling, grimacing a little at unexpectedly sore muscles. Sleeping on the ground shouldn't do that. Had she really been shaking that hard?

“ Caldera is closest,” he said hesitantly, stooping to get a look at her from below the overhang. Part of him wanted to get the hells away from this Argonian as quickly as possible. She'd been nothing but a thorn in his side from their first meeting.

_ You already risked your life to save hers. If you're going to put in the effort, you might as well follow through.  _ He sighed in disgust at himself and crawled back into the hollow, where he sat on his knees and pushed his armor toward the entrance where he could reach it later.

“ Ald'ruhn is North of here and it'll be my next stop. I seem to recall they've got a heavy Thieves Guild presence there so it might not be very safe for you, but if you come with me I'll buy your way out of the city. Ebonheart is where I'd go, if I were you.” As he spoke, J'hazarr picked up a few stay biscuits that hadn't been eaten, dropped them into his sack and cinched shut the top, then rolled that outside. He tossed the bedroll out after it.

“ I can buy my own strider fare,” she snapped, then grabbed up her bag of fire petals and squat-walked out into the rising sun with as much dignity as she could muster while all hunched over. The sky was blue and beautiful, and it looked much warmer than it was down here in the foyada with the ash coming up to her mid-foot.

She could buy her own strider fare, but not much of anything else. The warm uplifting burn of anger ebbed, and her shoulder slumped slightly as she stood out there with her back to him.

“ I mean... yes. Ald'ruhn sounds fine. I can probably sell my fire petals there. Collect up some other thing that only grows in the dry, sell it in Ebonheart. Maybe put together enough to get to Cyrodiil from there.” She'd never been on a boat. It all sounded very daunting and she shouldn't have to do it, damn it, they were her bracers and she'd found them first!

_ After what he has done, still you can say that? _

Her stomach churned and she shifted uncomfortably in place, clawed foot to clawed foot, tail hanging in a slight upward arc behind her.

“ I'm sure you can get yourself out of the city just fine on your own,” J'hazarr said evenly, crawling out after her. “I've got friends in high places in Ald'ruhn, though, so it's possible I could get you mage-transport for free. It's an awful long trip.” He stifled a grunt when he stood again, hand on the stone for support, and began strapping on his armor. He started with his boots and would work his way up, fingers flying over the straps with deft familiarity.

"...Oh." J'hazarr, with his rusty armor and his messed up face, had friends in high places? Nothing he'd said to her so far had been an exaggeration, even a little.

"I knew you were a nob," she said dryly.

“ I am a nob,” J'hazarr agreed in a tone which suggested that he just might be joking, then flashed a brief grin in her direction before returning to his armor. He considered explaining that he had emergency gold and Daedric weapons stashed throughout Vvardenfell, or that if things ever got really dire J'hazarr's disgustingly wealthy family back in Cyrodiil would bail him out. But he didn't want to encourage her hanging around him hoping to grow fat on his crumbs, nor did he want to rub his wealth in her face.

He had no right to that family's wealth, anyway. His education, his magicka, his original armor, even the fare that brought him to Vvardenfell to make his current life possible – he'd earned none of that. He was no better than the little thief in that regard.

J'hazarr tied on his belt before slipping on his gauntlets, the final piece of armor. Then he picked up his sack by the cord with one hand, bag of bracers in the other, bedroll tucked under his right arm. Two-Colors hadn't touched them again. Did she really mean to let him have the bracers this time? J'hazarr wasn't so sure. But as long as she was coming with him, she'd be easy to watch.

As usual, he had not worn his helm. J'hazarr glanced aside at Two-Colors as he started walking, again not really sure how to think of her or what to say.

 

* * *

She was startled to see him smile. With his entire whole face. He would never be handsome, but he looked much less fearsome when he smiled. She shifted uneasily while he finished getting ready, turned half away, unable to leave her back to anyone for long. She couldn't help feeling that she should be heading for cover so that she could follow him more easily. But that wasn't what she was doing. She'd already decided. A small whiny angry voice inside kept insisting that she was doing the wrong thing, that it was cowardly to just give in when there was still any kind of chance.

_ There wasn't ever any kind of chance,  _ she thought sadly, as she hopped to catch up to his long first stride.  _ You just thought more of yourself than you should've. _

It was hard to think that way. You couldn't think of yourself as worthless in anything other than the voice of angry defiance, or it would kill you.  _ That was the world she'd always lived in. I'm worth something to me. That's all I've got. It'll have to do. _

At least she didn't have to carry the damn things. That was a small bright spot.

He was looking at her again, glancing down sideways at her. Always impossible to tell what he was thinking behind the shiny black eyes. It had always thrown her off.

“ So what did happen to your face?” she asked. “I mean other than me.”

“ I was born ugly. Then I was burned. Then I caught rust chancre from a shalk.” His words were clipped and final. He moved his eyes quickly away from her, eyes to the road.

J'hazarr was not always alone. Every now and then he'd meet crusaders, treasure hunters and the like, someone who asked to come along for whatever it was J'hazarr was doing. They acted like they were doing him a favor. He didn't mind; extra hands made the work lighter. Those types of warriors tended to be blunt, so the question did not throw him off guard. His lips pressed together in a meager smile, and J'hazarr glanced at her sideways.

“ What happened to yours?” he asked in the same toneless voice.

She stifled a momentary outrage, tail flailing once.  _ What's wrong with you? You asked him, what did you expect?  _ She wondered at herself, not sure whether to laugh or rage at him. After a second she tilted her head to look up at him sideways. One side of her mouth lifted in a sort of crooked grin.

“ I was just born this way,” she said. “My Xiha wasn't so bad – isn't, I guess - so my father must've been the ugly one. Dunno. Never met him.”

Now J'hazarr felt a twinge of guilt. She was plainly colored, maybe, but that didn't make her ugly.  _ She knows I was joking, doesn't she? Yeah, she does, _ J'hazarr decided, catching her grin.

“ Your... Xiha,” he said carefully, testing the word.  _ That must be the Jel word for mother. _ “Where is she now..?” He'd wanted to ask the question earlier, back when he still thought she was a child, but he suspected there was some sad story there. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

“ Could be anywhere,” Two-Colors said. “I woke up and she was gone, and I knew she wasn't coming back 'cause she took all the food with her. Prolly Vivec. Lots of work for a thief there, and she used to be a decent thief. I learned to walk soft first because it was too easy to wake her up. Heh. Seems like a long time ago now.”

There was no strong emotion in her tone. She'd been upset enough right after it happened, but that was a long time ago. A lot of other things had happened between then and now.

“ Oh,” J'hazarr said quietly, eyes lowered to the ground. “So she taught you this trade.” He felt dull fury at that. Two-Colors never had a chance at a normal life. But then, her mother had probably been just as much the victim of an oppressive culture. Argonians did not willingly emigrate to Vvardenfell. Somewhere in her ancestry was a slave who had worked her way up from absolutely nothing.

He couldn't blame Two-Colors at all for trying to steal the bracers. She wanted to make a better life for herself, not use them to trap souls.

“ I guess. She wasn't around real long,” Two-Colors said. She sighed. “I guess if there's anything good about all this bullshit it's that I've been out of Balmora. I mean except for the almost freezing to death part, there's... things to like out here. There's more stars to see. There's the plants and the softer ground and some of the food is better. I mean I miss the food stalls in Balmora, but none of them had fresh kwama forager.”

“ Are you saying you've  _ never  _ left Balmora before?” J'hazarr asked, incredulous. That sort of explained why she thought leaving her big-toed footprints in the dirt was being clever, or why she went into a foyada with no warm clothes or a sleeping bag. But had she never even been to another city by strider or cart?

_ Where would she have got the money for that, idiot? _ He was suddenly all the more impressed that she had managed to make her way to the Daedric temple to begin with.

“ Well, why would I?” she demanded, bristling. “There was no reason to leave. I had -” She hunched up her shoulders inside her knapsack. “I had nothing worth sticking around for, I guess. But I didn't know that then. I had food, and I figured anywhere else there'd be even less safe places to sleep and maybe I wouldn't even be able to get the sewer jobs. I mean nobody  _ told _ me Caldera had thatched roofs and cheaper shops.”

J'hazarr wasn't exactly sure what thatched roofs had to do with anything. Maybe she found Caldera to be more picturesque. He had an easier time guessing what a sewer job was and internally cringed at that.

“ I can't fault your logic, actually,” he said. “Most towns in Morrowind are not at all like Caldera. The larger cities are full of crime and disorder. The smaller cities are very hostile to betmer. If you go to the mainland I hear that some of the Hlaalu cities are very hospitable, but I've never been because – well. There's a weak Imperial presence here in Vvardenfell and the natives tend to look the other way when you kill a member of a religion they don't like. These backward fucks have have never dreamed of the term 'due process.'”

Two-Colors squinted as she tried to parse that out. So, she had been right not to head for Vivec or Ald'ruhn, probably. But the other thing...

“ You mean there's places where you can't just go kill House of Troubles cultists? Don't they sacrifice people and like that?”

So he was an outlander. She supposed she should probably have guessed that from his accent. He didn't have the air of a betmer from Vvardenfell. Not even an Ohmes-raht, who could pass with their tail tucked up.

“ Of course,” he snorted, mildly amused by the term she had employed – as if those Princes were referred to as _ the House of Troubles  _ anywhere else. “In Cyrodiil if you suspected your neighbor of ritual killings you'd report him to the guard and let them investigate. They decide a person's guilt or innocence. If guilty they are punished in accordance with the law. You can't just take the law into your own hand. I mean, it's illegal to kill people unprovoked here in Morrowind too, but no one's going to do anything about it. Daedric worship is more stigmatized here than in any other province.”

“ What, even outside the cities?” He talked about it as if city guards would actually investigate that. But then, the Imperial Cult didn't seem that excited about chasing down heretics – the Empire was known for its religious indifference compared to the Tribunal Temple - and you couldn't just let people come haul off your citizens in the night to sacrifice to Mehrunes Dagon. It was strange to imagine them just letting cultists do what they liked, even if they didn't kill anyone.

“ The wilderness outside the cities still technically belongs to the jurisdiction of one count or another. Anyway, Daedric worship in Cyrodiil is more likely to take place near cities because it's not illegal. Stigmatized, yes, but that's a different beast,” he said. “I don't mean to say that Cyrodiil is totally safe or that no one ever gets away with murder.” _ I did it. Several times. _ “But resources are stretched thin here in comparison. Vvardenfell really doesn't have the manpower to monitor these huge, uninhabitable swaths of land. And that's if they even cared to.”

“ Cyrodiil sounds nice,” she said wistfully. “Is it true there's no slaves there?” It was hard to imagine.

“ Yes,” J'hazarr said. “It's true.” His family had urged him not to come to Morrowind precisely because of that institution, but J'hazarr had shrugged slavery off as a more extreme sort of servitude. Everyone back home had servants. The University employed its own drudges to clean the grounds. What was a slave, other than a drudge who received room and board rather than wages?

It wasn't until he saw the Telvanni slave markets in person that J'hazarr really understood what slavery was. Two-Colors, on the other hand, had been molded by a world in which it was taken for granted that she had less worth because of her race.

“ Well,” he added quickly. “There's lots of opportunity in Cyrodiil for an Argonian. I'm not saying it'll be easy or glamorous. Unskilled labor never is. But there's no mer-only establishments that would turn you away.”  _ Assuming she even wants to find honest work. Thieving's not a bad career choice in Cyrodiil either; getting caught might have you thrown in jail, but never sold into slavery. _

The chill of his armor was gone. The embarrassment of last night had evaporated. J'hazarr found that he didn't mind having someone to chat with. It kept him out of his own head.

Two-Colors eyed him suspiciously. There was something about all that that she didn't like, but she couldn't put into words what it was. Maybe something about the phrase  _ unskilled labor.  _ She made a noncommittal noise.

The terrain was opening up a little as they went. There were more fire flowers, and the big red-brown vines grew as fat as small tree trunks around the steam vents, creating tangled thickets. There were little pools of what smelled like boiling mud, sometimes a whiff of bad eggs. And the cracks in the ground were more common now. Some gave off a very faint red glow and a scent of smoke.

It wouldn't be long now. Her stomach twisted again.

They walked in silence for a while, and J'hazarr noted that they were past the hollow where he had originally bedded down the night before. The ground was beginning to slope Northward and steam vents grew more common. The foyada was not straight; it wound East and West in a serpentine path that doubled their travel time. J'hazarr thought he could make out a distant burble.

“ If you're going to stab me again, now's the time to do it,” he said.

“ I'm not going to stab you again, you ass,” she said, glaring up at him. “I want to see the damn things gone so I can quit worrying about it.”

"I don't care if you believe me," she added sullenly. "You'll see."

“ I'll see,” he repeated coolly, ignoring the glare. He saw a smear of crimson further up, and as they approached the smear became a wide cleft in the rock filled with black-red-orange mottled goop, like the skin of a dremora's face. Lava bubbled and popped out of the black skin, sending up a tiny spray of liquid sunlight each time. They could feel the heat of it even several feet away.

J'hazarr set down his bag and his bedroll and pulled the bracers from the sack, letting that drift to the ground. The inlays of Daedric script glowed angrily, as if in protest of their fate. He could feel the enchantment in his hand, a momentary extension of himself, of his own magicka. They were warmer than they had any right to be after having been in the bag.

Unimaginable power lay at his fingertips and J'hazarr refused it.

He stepped toward the pool of lava, and when he was about four feet away the Ohmes-raht lobbed the bracers in underhand, one after the other. The first tore open the skin with a loud  _ pop  _ and a small plume of lava erupted into the air as the second one hit. Both sank immediately and the lava sprayed upward more violently than before, mimicking actual fire. J'hazarr quickly backed away from it.

“ How do you like that, asshole?” he muttered under his breath, hard eyes locked on the lava, muscles of his face tightening almost imperceptibly. His usually inert tail flicked once to the side.

 

* * *

Oh, the heat was lovely. She wanted to lie down and bathe in it. The lava smelled of fire and something else, something like stone, but different in a way she could not describe.  _ This is what stone smells like when it has melted. _

Two-Colors edged well to one side of J'hazarr as they approached the lava, well within his line of sight but out of reach. She had no right to be angry. She had stabbed him twice, one of them with the definite intent to kill him. She watched stiffly, only her eyes moving, as he threw her last chance at the life she had once had into the well of liquid fire.

Her head whipped around at his voice, but after a second she realized he wasn't talking to her. He had never looked at her that way.

Which was odd, actually. But she wasn't sorry.

Two-Colors sighed, shoulders rising and falling as she looked away. Angry words trembled on her tongue and she swallowed them:  _ You could've bought a house. You could've freed a half-dozen slaves, or a dozen cheap ones, if that was something you cared about. You could've gone on a months-long bender in Almalexia or Suran, somewhere posh. _

“ Why was that so important?” she asked finally, voice taut.

He did not unfix his stare from the lava, bangs moving gently against his tattooed forehead with a breeze. J'hazarr wished he could feel something other than this tired anger. He wanted vindication, closure, some sort of emotional sensation that told him his revenge had been fulfilled. But J'hazarr was certain by now that such an emotion did not exist.

When the quest was over, one still had to live with that broken life.

“ Because the Daedra took something precious from me, and this is the only revenge I can take.” He spoke with a hard-edged voice, gauntleted fingers curling briefly into fists before falling limp. Then he turned away to calmly collect his things.

“ Come on,” he said as he straightened, slinging his bag over his shoulder again. He pointed up at Red Mountain with the finger of that fist, hand closed around the cord. “You can see the Ghost Fence from here. That means Ald'ruhn isn't far.”

A line of white pillars stood up like the ribs of a giant buried in the mountain. The wall of magicka that formed the actual fence had gone out with the death of Dagoth Ur, but the pillars would stand forever as a testament to the Tribunal's power.  _ If they were really so powerful,  _ J'hazarr often wondered,  _ why did they need a fence in the first place? _ But asking this of a Dunmer was a good way to get your teeth knocked out.

Ghostfence! She had heard of it, everyone had heard of it, but she had never seen it. She was momentarily distracted, staring at the distant pillars, but not enough to make her reconsider.

“ What about the dagger, then?” she demanded as she moved to catch up, still keeping her distance. She knew she shouldn't push it, that the best course with someone speaking in that tone was to keep your distance and shut up, and her heart hammered in her chest, urgent with the readiness to dodge away. It didn't stop her. It never had.

Some part of her still wanted him to turn out to be a liar and a hypocrite. Then she would at least feel a little justified.

“ What? Oh, that dagger. You knew about that?”  _ She knew that I traded away a daedric dagger to help her and she still stabbed me and stole from me? Dagon smite me, I can't believe the gall of this girl...  _ He almost laughed.

“ That is different,” he continued impassively, shrugging one shoulder without slowing down. He didn't walk very fast to begin with, letting her keep pace with him. “It was an unenchanted dagger made by ordinary dremora. The Fists of Dagon's Might are artifacts made by Dagon himself to bestow upon a chosen champion. They have the power to trap a black soul, the soul of a mortal. Most Daedric artifacts are used for evil. Excepting those of Azura and Meridia, maybe.”

“ I asked at the Guild,” she said tightly. “They said you – what?” She blinked. “Trap a soul like – in a soul gem?”

“ No, in a vase,” he said dryly. “Yes. An ordinary soul gem. Normally you can't.”

“ ...Fuck.” The single syllable held both anger and horror. She had heard that was possible, but she'd never known anyone who had a gem that could do that. It was a fate much worse than death. It was being trapped in another plane for the rest of eternity. Two-Colors squinted unhappily. Her head was starting to hurt from all this back-and-forthing.  _ I need a drink. _

_ I have hardly any gold and I definitely don't need to be spending it on booze. _

_ Well, you know what to do about that, don't you. Assuming the big – J'hazarr lets you out of his sight long enough and doesn't just hurl you directly onto the Guild platform. _

She was being ungrateful. She knew it. That didn't make her less angry.

The ground was gradually going from ashy gray to dull brown underfoot, and the scents around her were changing again: more fat vines, less fire flower, less stone.

J'hazarr felt the reverberations across the ground before he saw the looming shape of the silt strider over the hills.  _ Ugh, I hate these things, _ he thought, glaring up at the big flea-on-stilts that came lurching around a bend in the foyada. He moved well to one side to avoid its many pole-like feet, but its stride was so long that they didn't even step close to himself or Two-Colors. The wind of its movement stirred up eddies of ash as it passed them.

They rounded the bend after the silt strider had passed, and nestled there in the vast valley of rock at the foot of Red Mountain sprawled Ald'ruhn. The city stretched on for miles, little bone-colored pods that served as homes and shops clustered around smaller plazas, which in turn were all arranged around the massive disk-shaped shell large enough to house entire neighborhoods. It had once belonged to a living land crab that J'hazarr sincerely hoped was extinct.

Nearer to them rose the boarding platforms around which a small army of silt striders mingled. The city was ringed by a smooth-topped plaster wall. Flat-topped guard towers flanked every entrance into the city, the tallest structures J'hazarr had seen in Morrowind aside from the Telvanni towers. The smooth rock of the foyada gave way to ash-dusted cobble. The city gates were left open, and guar drawn carts were trundling Westward, weaving fearlessly through the sea of strider legs. J'hazarr supposed many of them would be headed for Gnar Mok or Gnisis, the nearest port cities.

Two-Colors raised a nose to the wind.  A new town, a new set of sights and smells. Well, guar dung and sweaty Dunmer smelled the same everywhere. But Ald'ruhn was new. The stone and clay it was made of had their own smell. If you shut your eyes it was not the same as being in Balmora or Caldera. There was the scent of vines, and ash, and another not-quite-food, bone-dry smell that might be from the houses or might be from the giant shell that she could see in the distance. She only caught it when the wind blew toward them.

“ Your friend Hasabi didn't bother to tell you the part about the soul trap enchantment, I'm guessing,” J’hazarr grunted, moving down the slope toward the city. 

“ She didn't,” Two-Colors said quietly. “But if she had, I probably would've tried to get them anyway. I would've said who cares, some Telvanni asshole will use them on some other Telvanni asshole. But that's not really the whole truth, is it? They might use it on their slaves, or their husband or wife that they're tired of, or their child that they don't trust to inherit. On anyone at all.”

“ That's all possible,” J'hazarr said carefully. He could tell that she was feeling bad, guilty perhaps, but the truth was that J'hazarr was no better. He was not at all motivated by the desire to help others. He might tell himself that so he could feel righteous, but J'hazarr was really most motivated by the desire to send a Fuck You in big red letters to the Princes. Kill their followers, destroy their artifacts, weaken their hold over Tamriel.

“ Don't worry about it,” J'hazarr said. “Evil people will find ways to do evil things with or without the bracers, or any other Daedric artifact.”  The guards did not look twice at them as they strode through the city gates, keeping to one side to avoid the guar carts who did not make way for pedestrians. Few people noticed J'hazarr as a betmer at first glance, nor was his armor anything worth taking a second look at.

Two-Colors stopped in her tracks, staring at his back.  _ The godsdamnfuckinghells! Then why did we just go through all of that? _

She seethed silently for a long couple of seconds before a guar-driver yelled at her to move, and then she sprinted out of the way of a small herd of complaining fat-headed lizards and hurried to catch up to J'hazarr. It occurred to her as she did so that he was actually trying to make her feel better.  _ Drink. Flin if I can get it. Mazte if I can't. _

“ Thanks,” she said. “I still need to sell my petals. Do you want me to meet you somewhere?”

J'hazarr stopped on the street, absently stroking his cheek with a finger while he considered the options.

_ Do you really want to leave her alone? She said the this Thieves Guild boss was going to have her killed. _

_ She's an adult and ultimately not your responsibility. Besides, what are the chances of someone recognizing her on her first day in a crowded city? They don't even expect her to be here. _

“ See that temple on the hill?” he asked, pointing toward the Eastern end of town. Just like the temple in Balmora (and everywhere that J'hazarr had seen) it was a big copper-domed building with a courtyard in front, enclosed by a high wall. Their identical design regardless of region had some symbolic meaning, that all Houses were united in worship. Or something. “I'll be staying there. If you tell someone you're with J'hazarr they'll show you the room.”

“ Okay. I'll see you there, then,” Two-Colors said. She was already looking down the broad street at the hanging sign of a stylized eye. Well, that had been easy enough. The Fighters Guild was probably right across the – yep, there it was. She trotted off to one side of the street, out of the way of carts and careless people in armor. The sun was well up now, and the day was becoming warm. Later it might even be hot. She paused by an arrangement of urns that smelled like they probably held garbage, turning her face up to the warmth. She never closed her eyes all the way. She'd learned not to.

It was much dimmer inside the Mages Guild. The blue and gold carpet looked worn from use, showing the definite pattern of traffic across the middle, and it smelled like mothballs and dust. They had one of those fat red vines in a huge pot in the big domed entry room. It draped its great arching arms high over that half of the room, soaking up light from the dim and distant skylight. Clearly it didn't need much. There was a table with some random junk on it off to one side and an old human with a long white beard poring over a scroll, muttering to himself. His robe was green with bronze ornaments at the belt and collar, and he was carrying so much magicka in his body that it almost had a smell. Two-Colors could feel it along her spine as she turned to look at him.

_ Patient. Polite. Cute, if you can. _

“ Excuse me, Serjo,” she said, coaching her voice in the direction of sounding more breathy. “Is there an alchemist here?”

“ Yes, Anarenen is usually downstairs,” he said. “Mind your step, the stairs are steep.” And he went right back to what he was doing. Two-Colors blinked at him. Not even a 'don't steal anything' or 'are you lost'?

_ Mages. _ She shrugged and went through the big arched doorway. There was a narrow balcony around to either side, lined with doors, and in front of her was a broad staircase leading downward into a high-domed room that must be dug out of the ground below the surface. It didn't look that steep. It was cooler as she descended, looking around with nostrils flared. Every species had been here, even other Argonians. One particular older male, in fact, was here a lot. The Guilds did allow betmer in more than any Dunmer organization; they were international, found throughout the Empire and in some places where the Empire's rule did not reach, even all the way to the Summerset Isles, it was said.

Downstairs there were a couple of big tables piled with books, and shelves around the edges of the room to hold more; a couple of Dunmer were already studying, poring earnestly over the pages. She pegged them at a glance for students, lacking anything worth pickpocketing unless you were really desperate for one or two septims. She followed the scent of Altmer around to a deep alcove in the straw-colored stucco of the wall. He was tall, thin, sour-faced, dressed in a brown robe with brass studs on the cuffs and on his belt. A skirt of leather flaps hung from belt to knees, and he wore his white hair in a small topknot. As she peered around the edge of the alcove he was nudging a small pile of gray powder an inch to the left on its little paper on a shelf full of other papers. There were too many smells to even parse them all out, but she spotted a fire petal close to the bottom.

“ Excuse me, Serjo,” she said. “Would you like to buy some fire petals?”

“ What? Get out of here, girl, I'm not buying any – did you say fire petals?” he paused in mid finger-wag. Two-Colors held up her sack. “How many? Let's see them.”

He ended up giving her twenty septims for the bag. She was very pleased with herself as she headed back out to the street. She also learned that the fat vines were called trama, and their thorns were prized for their use in compounding levitation potions. Anarenen wasn't buying, because he could just go pluck them off the street, but somebody in Vivec would. She wandered up the street picking them carefully, scales guarding her from the odd scratch. There were riotous growths of them in the dimmer alleys between the high domed buildings, but her nose told her there were Dunmer lurking down some of them, and in a strange place she would not risk it. She stayed close to the main street, nose and ears always alert. Anybody who saw her would probably assume her to be a slave. It was less usual to see one in leather armor, but it probably wouldn't collect more than the odd curious glance if anyone noticed her at all. It was very easy not to do so as she padded silently from shadow to shadow.

The question now was – should she try to find J'hazarr again? Or just quietly get on the next strider to Vivec, then the first boat to Ebonheart when she had sold her thorns? There was no reason not to be free of him now that the bracers were gone. He regularly infuriated her.

_ He said he could maybe get me a free trip from the Guild. Don't you want to at least find out what that's like? You'd never be able to afford it yourself even if they'd ever do it for the likes of you. _

And it would save a lot of time. A lot of things could happen on a long trip by boat and strider, and she would probably use up all her food.

_ Food. _ Her stomach rumbled at the thought. She had a drink of water as she squatted in the shadow of what was probably somebody's house, not too far from the Temple. She could smell that there were street vendors not too far off, probably up on the higher ground in front of the giant mole crab shell. It looked like a busy market from down here, Dunmer in colorful clothes and occasionally armor milling about with a thin smattering of other races.

It might be worth spending a couple of septims on a hot meal. Especially when it might be a long time before she had another one. Also, what better place to steal herself a drink? Her mind made up, Two-Colors transferred a few coins to a pocket so she wouldn't have to fish in her bag for them – she was much too small to be easily pickpocketed – and headed up the stairs toward the crowd.

Two-Colors lost track of time at the market for some while. Picking pockets was an entertaining game. If you timed it just right you could convince some pucker-faced dowager that the equally sour-looking man behind her had pinched her, and be yards away crouched in the shade of a booth watching the nonsense happen before anyone knew what was going on. The Redoran guards were just as blind as the Hlaalu ones – probably the face-concealing helmets didn't help. It wasn't efficient, of course. She made maybe fifteen septims in an hour, and then she gave in because she was hungry and wanted to spend some of her new coin. She couldn't help noticing that she'd done a lot less work for the fire petals. She'd never had anything to compare with her job before.

She bought a skewer of what turned out to be chunks of mole crab interspersed with ash yam and crouched in the shade by a book store – an actual building, this time – to eat it. It was delicious. She licked her claws carefully afterward, then plied her toothpick as she watched the street until a guard came and told her to move along. She walked away into the crowd, calling him a fetcher under her breath; but the mood wasn't completely ruined. She was thirsty, and a drink of water from her skin bottle wasn't enough.

It wasn't that hard to pick out a day drunk in a crowd. They engendered space around them because of the wobbly gait and the smell, even before the wind blew the smell of flin toward Two-Colors. A drunk nob, the best kind. He might look like he had a death grip on the little bottle in his hand, but he was far enough along that the muscles would be getting relaxed. She only had to distract him a little. She thought it over for a few seconds as she orbited around him through the crowd, small and unnoticed, and then she tripped up a fat Dunmer in so many colorful robes he looked like an inflated bird and dodged behind a group of young women before she was seen. The fat one tipped, flailing his arms as he shouted, and knocked right into the drunk, who dropped his bottle, swearing. A nimble hand caught it as Two-Colors took a swooping step past and she was off again before he even had time to complain.

The bottle smelled like Dunmer, but it was still flin. A couple little sips of it gave her a nice warm feeling, a gentle burn on the way down. It lacked the strong hoppy aftertaste of beer or the mixed herbal acidity of sujamma or mazte, much smoother and cleaner than any other liquor you could buy except maybe cyrodilic brandy. Brandy she had only tasted once, when another thief of much higher rank was celebrating at the corner club.

She saw another guard eyeballing the fancy bottle in her hand and ducked down beside an urn to set it on the ground before she padded merrily off on her way to the Temple. It wasn't so bad. It could be a lot worse.


	8. chapter 8: The Widower

# The Widower

 

**3E 416**

Lambing Green wasn't much of a town. It had begun as a big clearing in the midst of the Great Forest south of Chorrol and west of the Colovian Highlands in the great Imperial Province of Cyrodiil. They knew that Uriel Septim VII was their Emperor, but probably did not know the names of all his sons; when the Warp in the West occurred a year later they probably would hardly have noticed, if any had been left.

The village had a well in the center of the clearing around which its various cottages were organized. Out beyond the houses were their cultivated fields of wheat and lavender, sold in Chorrol or, if prices there were bad, in the farther-off city of Skingrad. They ate mushrooms gathered in the wood, hunted rabbits, fished the streams, raised a small pack of dogs to keep the wolves at bay, and generally kept to themselves. By spring of that year the town had burgeoned to about thirty-four souls counting the children. There were the usual social quarrels over property and spouses, but overall, life wasn't too bad. People worked, brewed apple cider in their off-time and drank it, had the occasional knee-up around a bonfire on summer nights.

The day that they killed Lambing Green, he was gone to Chorrol, leading a mule with a huge bundle of wheat on her back. He got a middling price for it, not surprising in a good growth year, and bought seed, salt, sugar, the things they couldn't grow at home. He bought a blue hair ribbon for his wife. They were expecting, and he was already proud. He hoped for a strong boy to work with him in the field, but if it had been a girl he would be proud too, because she would still be his daughter.

He knew that something was wrong when he stepped out of the wood on the footpath and into the edge of Old Tibbony's lavender field. There was nobody out working. Not a soul. A discarded hoe lay beside the footpath, and from the circle of cottages he heard the sound of wailing. He quickened his pace, tying up the mule by her trough as quickly as he could, and hastened into his house. The door was not barred across.

His wife was laid out on their bed, her hands folded on her pregnant belly, white and cold. Her eyes were shut. Someone had laid a septim over each eyelid. On the floor in front of the hearth lay someone else under a sheet. He stood looking at them for some time, the blue ribbon drifting to the floor forgotten. Then he went and kissed Olivia on the forehead – she was so very cold, and her face was frightened, brow still knit – and on her hands, over the cold body of their unborn child. He knelt to place his hand on the forehead of her mother, who lay under the sheet, and in a steady voice he commended them to the care of Arkay on their journey to the next world.

Then he went to try and find someone alive, to ask what had happened. Later there would be tears. For now he needed information. As he went from house to house his heart grew heavier and colder, as if in sympathy with Olivia's. In some he found no one alive at all, the dead laid out on beds or under sheets awaiting someone with the time and the strength to bury them. At last he came to Salirien's house. Salirien and Nerilia had been the only Altmer in the village. They had always been a little standoffish, and they would always be strangers compared to those who had been born here, but they had now been around longer than the widower had been alive and they were part of Lambing Green. Now Nerilia sat on the edge of the bed, holding Salirien's hand as he lay pale and still, his gaunt high-boned face twitching occasionally. The look of his face was not unlike the look of Olivia's.

“What's happened?” the widower asked. Nerilia did not look up. She was still wearing her brown work homespuns, a basket of mushrooms sitting on the floor beside the bed.

“Someone poisoned the well two days ago,” she said. She spoke Cyrodilic with no accent at all. He'd never heard her speak Aldmeris. “Nearly everyone drank. There are six of us now. Seven, counting you. Bruttian's boy took their horse to Skingrad to try and bring a priest, but I doubt they will be in time. If there's anything they could really do.”

“Only seven,” he repeated stupidly.

Nerilia raised her head at last. By the deeply shadowed look of her eyes she had not slept for some time.

“I'm sorry. Olivia died the first day. I don't know of what. She just – stopped. Her mother, too.”

“I found them,” the widower said.

“Perhaps it is a mercy,” said Nerilia. She looked down at her husband. “I don't know what is happening to him, but he is suffering.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I am sorry as well. Go, please. Bury your dead.”

The next day or so was a nightmare of digging. He lost track of time, but for some of it he worked by moonlight. When he was thirsty he went to the stream. All of them did, no one wanted to risk the well. The widower's hands were already callused from work, but they were chafed raw by the time he had finished all of the graves. He dug up one of the lavender fields to bury them. Everyone in the family that owned it had drunk the water, man, woman and child. Only the man was still living, tended by the survivor of another family, but dehydration would take him in a couple of days if the poison did not.

He had buried his own first, and then he had begun to go around the circle of huts and collect up the others, bringing the living to say a prayer to Arkay over them if there was anyone to do so, doing it himself if there was not. At some point a priest did appear, a small worried middle-aged woman in a blue robe on the Bruttians' horse. She had left the child in the temple's care. By that time most of the poisoned had died, either very suddenly or of gradual dehydration. Salierien already lay under earth. The widower finished his work, washed up, and went to see what she had to say.

“There is nothing that I can do,” she said helplessly, standing over the unconscious body of Lavinia Traveries. “The contamination is of Vaermina. It is not an ordinary poison, and it is not cured by my spells.”

“Vaermina?” the widower did not even know the name at that point.

“The Daedric Prince of dreams. These poor souls have been trapped in her realm to be tormented by nightmares. When they perish there, they perish here.”

The widower absorbed this slowly. He felt a queer relief in the knowledge that even if the priest had been much earlier, even if he had been home to ride hell-for-leather to Skingrad, she could not have saved Olivia. It would spare him one sleepless night out of two.

“What happens to them then?” he asked.

“She has no right or power to retain souls that have not given themselves to her. They are freed to make their way to Aetherius. So we may comfort ourselves with that thought, at least. Though they are in torment for a while, they will be carried in the arms of Kynareth at last.”

“My wife and child,” he said. “They died on the first day...?”

“They are safe,” she said. There was no doubt in her voice.

“Thank you, Sister.” The widower laid a hand on her shoulder and went to saddle his mule. He had few possessions. He would never have many. At that point he did not even own a sword.

He was going to need one. He was going to be using it a great deal, he felt.

The widower's name was Rullus Ennius. That was the year he turned twenty years old.

 

* * *

 

**3E 416 - 423**

The first thing Rullus Ennius did was to ride to Saraline, the next closest village before Chorrol, and ask if they'd seen a stranger recently. They hadn't, other than the red-eyed Imperial on the tired plough horse. He rode in a widening circle around the graveyard that had once been Lambing Green, asking everyone he met.

Eventually he came to Topping, some five miles to the East. Apparently an Ohmes-raht Khajiit and an orc in robes had passed through, had bought some mushrooms off them on their way to the Imperial City. He got as exact a description of them as he could and he wrote it down, slowly, painstakingly; at that point Rullus barely knew how to read and write. Both had been armed. Both had struck the locals as dangerous people. While he was there he heard someone complaining of goblin raids on their sheep flock, but at the time he put it out of his mind.

There was no point in hurrying after them when he'd just immediately get himself killed. That wouldn't serve Olivia's memory, either. So Rullus took the money from their last wheat crop and rode to the Fighters Guild in Chorrol. A painful week later he understood exactly how vast was the depth of his ignorance and how quickly he would die when faced with anyone who knew what they were doing.

To get more lessons he needed more money. He thought quietly for a while about how to get it as he continued his sword practice on the undeserving trees of the Great Forest. Then he went back to Topping and asked about the goblins.

There were only five of them, filthy snarling little creatures grubbing in a cave on a river-bank. Rullus nearly died in the process of clearing them out. If they hadn't had a couple of near-spoiled potions in their horde of trash he undoubtedly would have bled out. As it was, his left arm and side were scarred in a way that would never go away. But it got him some gold, and when he was healed the gold bought him another sword lesson. Not long after that he picked up a shield.

That went on for a long time. He never joined the Fighters Guild, or any guild at all; he had no time for hierarchies and orders when he had his own job to do. He thought about trying to join the Temple of Arkay, but a visit to the great Chapel at Stendarr taught him that he would be refused; he could not conceal his reasons, and they would not accept an initiate whose motivation was almost entirely vengeful rather than founded on a desire to keep the boundary of life and death. Instead he paid a sympathetic priest to teach him his first weak healing spell. That took a long time, much longer than it had taken him to gain simple competence with his sword and shield. He nearly gave up, but the image of Olivia's white and frightened face was always before him. Eventually he had it down well enough that he only failed the casting one time out of two.

He often regretted that he had no token of Olivia's other than his memories. They had been poor, and he had thoughtlessly buried her in the one piece of jewelry she had owned, her cheap copper wedding ring.

He still had his, crudely engraved with a symbol of Mara. He wore it every day.

When he was confident that he might last about ten seconds against a pair of cultists of Vaermina he traded his spotted plough horse for a smaller, faster black horse and a bag of septims, and he rode to the Imperial City. He did not hurry. He needed to do more jobs along the way.

To back-trace two people who had been there two and more years ago would be a lengthy and frustrating task. He had on his side that they had been an Ohmes-raht and an Orc traveling together, an unusual pairing even in that large and cosmopolitan principality. And good common sense told him that to find a mage he ought to ask at the Arcane University first.

The secretary at the University was very obliging. She probably told him more than she had to, in fact, because he was young and weary-looking and there was a new scar on the right side of his throat from a bandit who had been overly ambitious. She recognized both the Orc and the Khajiit, surprisingly: Morga gra-Lumgrol and J'hazarr had both been students at the University, as it turned out. J'hazarr had joined the Legion in 413, and Morga had gone to work as an apprentice with Lumius Darlan here at the University until she suddenly disappeared in 3E 416.

Polite inquiry with the Legion garrison unearthed the information that J'hazarr had resigned his post. By letter. In 3E 416, a few months before Morga's disappearance. They didn't know where he'd gone, but his family's estate was North of Leyawiin. And Rullus began another long ride to another place that he had never been.

It wasn't hard for him to make friends with some of the servants on the big place out beyond the city. He still spoke like a working man back then, like a farmer. The family was well off, two boys and a girl, and yes indeed, the eldest boy had come home late in 3E 416. Oh no, he wasn't home now, he'd moved around a lot. They never did find out where he'd last been heard from, but they thought he'd gone to Cheydinhal at some point.

It took Rullus a long time to get to Cheydinhal. He had to keep looking for work. He needed armor, and training in how to wear it.

 

**3E 423-428**

The next four years found Rullus Ennius patiently following the trail of the murderer J'hazarr from city to city in Cyrodiil, asking questions, taking work where he found it. He was unable to learn exactly what happened to Morga. Perhaps they had fallen out at some point. He asked about her many times, but J'hazarr was only heard of alone. The Ohmes-raht seemed to wander without purpose, with no real pattern or intent; Rullus came to every new town with a sinking heart, fearing another poisoned well, another great evil in the name of Vaermina, but he found nothing of the sort. Perhaps in his falling out with his partner he had fallen out with the daedra as well. Rullus preferred not to consider that too closely because it gave him less purpose for continuing his pursuit; but just because the man had not yet committed another such evil did not mean that he never would. Who could fathom the ways of daedric cultists?

In fact, Rullus himself was becoming slightly more proficient at exactly that. He read on the subject where he could, but more importantly his second near-death experience after the goblins was when he followed up what turned out to be a false lead on the Gold Coast near the Hammerfell border and wandered into the precincts of a shrine to Malacath. Somewhat to his surprise, not all of the worshippers there were Orcs, but all were fighters; if more of them had been powerful mages he probably would not have survived at all.

They hunted him through the wood and the dense brush for days, roaring their disdain, calling him a coward and a weakling, and he hunted them in turn, one by one. Challenged head-on, no individual one would call for the others to help. They would fight him themselves or die. They would fight him themselves and die, because while many were veterans of combats that Rullus had never seen, none of them was driven by the sullen flame of furious, grieving rage that he nourished behind a calm face in all of his dealings. By the time they had all fallen he had a broken arm, three broken ribs, the spikes of a morning star still embedded in his cuirass so hard that they pierced his side, and a severe concussion, and only his weak little healing spell saved him.

Many of them had valuable armor. He went on to Chorrol scarred forever, the bones in his face so rearranged that no one he had known would ever recognize him, but better armed and armored than he would ever have been able to afford, and when he had sold all that he took from the Malacathites he was rich for a little while. That was when he took his second set of lessons in the school of Restoration. It would be years before he was any good at his new spells, magicka swirling under his skin seemingly so fragile that it would puff away to nothing at the slightest provocation.

Over the course of these travels there were doors that were closed to Rullus, progress arrested by the limited number and sort of people who would speak with him. In the palaces of Counts and Countesses even the servants were too high to speak to someone with the accents and diction of an uneducated country bumpkin. It slowed his progress. While he was recovering from the Malacath incident he thought this over, and among the books he bought and sold as he went were books on etiquette and elocution. He practiced talking with people of all sorts, trying to learn to pass for a gentleman as well as a fighter.

For a while his progress was slow. After Chorrol he went to Bravil, that sump of mud and misery squatting in steep ranks on either side of the filthy canal. As he pursued his inquirie he stayed at the Lonely Suitor Lodge, a creaky and teetering wooden mess near the water, surrounded by mosquitos and unwholesome air. A number of people stared openly at his mixture of orcish and ebony armor, the heavy orcish sword at his hip, but they looked also at his crooked nose and his air of calm assurance and left him alone. Except for the skinny blond man at the bar, the one wearing a watered silk robe stained with wear and ragged around the hem. He looked Rullus over, sidled up to lean on the bar next to him and, in a flawless aristocratic drawl, offered to suck the Imperial's cock for a brandy.

Rullus set down his mug of ale and turned to regard the stranger curiously. The Breton was looking at a man around six feet one and well over two hundred pounds out of armor, a sturdy farmer become a sturdy fighter. In armor he gave the impression of a bollard given unnatural animation. His nose had once been sharp and was now mashed and crooked. One cheekbone was higher than the other, his mouth permanently lopsided in the center of what had once been a broad and handsome jawline. The bones of his face were still angular, but they were no longer straight. His eyes were brown. His hair was gone. He shaved it. The scars on his skull made hair grow back patchy.

Boiled gooseberry eyes, bleary and distant, looked back without fear and with only the mildest interest. The Breton was almost a head shorter. He looked so thin that a stiff wind could blow him over, stubbly and stinking of booze and few baths. If Rullus had wished to take offense at the suggestion that he was a man-lover he could've broken him over one knee with little effort.

“No,” Rullus said. “But I'll buy you all the brandy you want if you can teach me to talk like you.”

The man stared at him, then giggled, a high-pitched and uncomfortable noise.

“Impossible, old fellow, really quite impossible. You're as Imperial as a new septim.”

“But you could make me sound posher,” he said.

“Oh, I suppose. It'd take a long time, and it'd be a lot of work for you and me both, my dear chap. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have me - ”

“I'm sure,” Rullus said. “I don't like men that way. But if you can teach me, I'll take care of you.”

The Breton goggled at him, then offered a thin, white hand. “Adrian de Faelencourt, at your service.”

Rullus shook it very carefully. He felt that he could easily crush the man's bones by accident. “Rullus Ennius. Come with me.”

Adrian de Faelencourt was his constant companion thereafter. Rullus carelessly bought him all the alcohol he wanted when they were in town, carried enough to keep him functional out of it, and listened to the accent and intonation of his voice. Rullus had to go and roust him out of a strange man's bed more than once, and more than once had to heal him of the marks he acquired thereby, but by that point he had begun to consider the man's company useful. His affect on Rullus' vocabulary and diction had already bought him an invitation into a very exclusive party when they were in Skingrad, where he was able to meet someone who had known J'hazarr as a young man in Leyawiin.

“Oh yes, I knew all the family,” Corrus Galius had said, gesturing with his glass of imported flin. “Our estates border one another, you know. I saw J'hazarr reasonably often growing up. Not that one would wish to do so, mind.”

“Oh?” said Rullus, with just such an intonation as would encourage the man to continue.

“He was a cocky, thirsty bastard. Always wanted more power, always studying fighting and magicka, never thought much of anybody else. Dead set on joining the Legion as a battlemage, though gods know he couldn’t have any interest in serving the Empire. He wouldn't give the time of day to anybody that didn't have something he wanted. Not at all like his sister. Shadazi, I think her name was? Nice gel, kind to the poor and whatnot.” He leaned forward confidentially. “I would've had her myself, folks were going to arrange it, but she wouldn't have me. Dunno why. We'd got buckets more blunt than they had, don't you know. She'd always speak up for him, say he wasn't so bad. No idea what she saw in him.”

“Truly it is difficult to imagine,” Rullus said, in a tone of mildly interested boredom. His evening clothes were impeccable, conservative but still very fine, brown silk and velvet; Adrian had helped him choose them. “Well, I'm headed out that way fishing before too long. D'you think she'd see an ugly commoner?”

“Ha! Modesty,” said Corrus, slapping him on the back. “But you haven't got a chance in the world there, old thing, not with new money. Mark my words. Not even if you had a title. She's married now, and they say she's sea-green incorruptible.”

“It does a man good to have his heart broken every once in a while,” Rullus said, grinning crookedly. It never reached his eyes. Corrus was too drunk to notice.

“Well, I can't blame you for drawing a bow at a venture, just don't say I didn't warn you. Tell you what, I'll write my majordomo at the Leyawiin estate, you can stay there a couple of days. We used to ride across one another's grounds every so often; if J'hazarr wasn't about to give you a thrashing you might be able to strike acquaintance when she's out riding. I'd go out of armor if I was you. Your own face is apt to frighten a gently bred young lady all on its own, if you'll excuse me mentioning it.”

“Oh, I don't mind, you're quite right,” Rullus said. “But I should consider you owed a favor, all the same.”

Adrian de Faelencourt was still dependent on alcohol to function, probably always would be, but he was a healthier man than he had been when they had met. A month and a half before the second visit to Leyawiin, some Namirans crept out of their hidey-hole behind Rullus and gave him a severe beating before the Imperial made it back out to check. If Rullus had not arrived in time they might have torn him limb from limb. By that time Rullus could heal as well as some of the younger acolytes of the temples. Adrian would not suffer the scarring that had disfigured the Imperial, but he was inspired to become somewhat less of a physical liability.

He asked Rullus for a rapier and a boiled leather cuirass, and Rullus was surprised to learn he was a very proficient swordsman; apparently it was a mandatory subject of study for young aristocrats of High Rock. He stood the long ride to Leyawiin surprisingly well, though he looked a little wistful at their accommodations at the Galius Estate. He had never talked about what his life had been before Bravil, though he had eventually been curious about what Rullus was after. Rullus listened to whatever he had to say, drunk or sober, but he seldom asked a question.

The day after they arrived at the sprawling manse in its expansive grounds, bounded by a stream on one side and a ha-ha on the other, Rullus put on his riding leathers and took his big black horse out for a ride across the stream and into the neighboring estate, fishing tackle hung from the saddle. He rode until he spied a cottage in the distance, then dismounted, staked out the horse, and started fishing.

It wasn't long before an old man came along with a brace of rabbits on his shoulder to see who it was and what they were doing. He was a wrinkled old Imperial who, judging by his carriage, was probably an ex-Legionnaire. Rullus calmly explaining his bona fides, they chatted pleasantly for a while, and Rullus gradually managed to work the conversation around to the family:

“Oh, and how are they?”

“Not too bad, Sir, not too bad. The young lady does worry time to time, but she married well.”

“Wasn't there an older brother? I can't recall the name.”

“Oh, aye, young J'hazarr. He's been gone a long time now, wanderin' about. Dunno what happened. You'd hardly know him since he came back from the City that one time.”

“Is he home?” Rullus asked curiously, reeling in an empty hook. “I'd hoped to see him.”

“Ah, no, sir, you've missed him these six months. He's sailed for Vvardenfell, what I heard.”

“That's a pity,” Rullus said. “Well, perhaps I'll catch up to him one of these days.”

He stayed another day or so, left his card at the house when he was sure the girl was not home just in case he ever needed to support his story to Corrus. He might possibly have gained an audience, but even as hardened as he had become, he knew he couldn't look her in the eyes and tell a direct lie to try and get information. She was obviously suffering from the knowledge of what her brother had become. Let her pain not be increased by the presence of one of his victims.

As soon as the winter storms had subsided enough for ships to travel again, Rullus Ennius set sail for the western coast of Vvardenfell, Adrian de Faelencourt still at his side.

 

**3E 428-430**

Rullus Ennius landed at Hla Oad early in the year 3E 428, when the winds were still cold even in the dense humid lands on the coast. His quarry was well ahead of him by that time. The nearest large city was Balmora, a good long walk to the Northeast; the silt striders didn't come so far as the muddy little fishing village, but it was the closest port to the place in Cyrodiil from which he had set sail. Adrian de Falencourt did not complain of the walk, which surprised Rullus somewhat; but then he had gained condition as they traveled together, accustomed to walking and riding for long days. He didn't slow Rullus down nearly as much as he had when they met.

Anyway, Rullus was a patient man. There was no hurry. J'hazarr did not seem to know he was pursued. In Balmora he asked at the Guilds first, in case the mer had decided to become more social on this shore, but had no luck. At the Temple of the Tribunal, on the other hand, they recognized the name and description immediately. He spoke with a younger priestess in the yard out front of the low domed building, surrounded by a stuccoed wall. Adrian stood leaning against the wall, eyeing up the younger gentlemen as they went in to pray. They were mostly Dunmer. Their stares in return were mostly hostile.

“Oh yes, we see J'hazarr from time to time,” the priestess said. She wore blue robes embroidered in gold with scriptures in Dunmeris, a language which Rullus even now could hardly read. Fortunately most people in Vvardenfell spoke enough Cyrodilic to get by. His spoken Dunmeris was not very good, but Adrian's, again surprisingly, was better. “He comes in asking about the daedric cultists, usually. Every time a shrine is cleared there's a lapse of time, sometimes weeks, sometimes years, and then more move in. So there's no shortage of work. We've given him potions and supplies occasionally. He's very persistent and very reliable.”

“Is he a sociable fellow?” Rullus asked.

“I shouldn't say so, no. He doesn't talk a great deal. I would call him, let me find the word in Cyrodilic, morose? Sad? I think that his life has disappointed him.” Her tone was sympathetic and thoughtful as she looked past Rullus' shoulder at nothing, and then the crimson eyes flicked back to him more sharply. “Why are you looking for him? You have the look of someone who has tangled with the cultists yourself.”

The bag at Rullus' hip held his ebony helm. His curass was ebony too, gleaming black with chipped and worn accents that had once been painted gold. His pauldrons, greaves and boots were orcish, gleaming black with little tiles of lighter metal on the flexible areas, a mail made of tiny squares holding up the knee guards. The gauntlets he wore were ebony as well. He kept it in reasonable condition, because he needed it to last a long time; but none of it was new, and all of it had seen hard use, some of the dings and dents deep enough that no hammer could remove them.

Rullus smiled his lopsided smile. “Yes, we're in the same business,” he said. “That's why I'm looking for him, in fact. There was some bad business in Cyrodiil some years back, and he seems to be the only survivor. I'd like to talk to him about it.” Rullus seldom if ever told a direct lie. The little omissions wore away at his soul bit by bit, he sometimes felt, but it brought him closer to his goal. Every little thing had to be weighed, but a lie of omission was nothing against that greater scale.

“Well, I'm afraid I can't be very helpful,” the priestess said. “He hasn't been here in months now. I heard he was headed for Vivec. There are many shrines in the isles out there.”

“Vivec it is,” Rullus said. “Thank you very much for your time, priestess.” He pressed a couple of septims into her hand and turned to clink and clack his way out of the courtyard. Adrian peeled gracefully away from the wall and slouched after him, yawning.

J'hazarr was not in Vivec, though apparently he had resupplied there. He was not in Molag Mar, though the priest there knew his name as well. He was not in Tel Branora, though finding that out took an annoyingly long time; the Telvanni townsfolk were not eager to talk to an Imperial of any description. The priest of the Imperial Cult and the Tribunal in Sadrith Mora both knew him, and both thought well of him, but he wasn't there, either. In Sadrith Mora he began to notice Adrian coughing. The man said nothing about it, so he let it go at the time.

By Dagon Fel, island of many ruins, Adrian was obviously feverish. Rullus put him up at the inn while he went to investigate a specific shrine where he had heard J'hazarr might be. J'hazarr was not there, but a number of cultists of Sheogorath were. They had some valuable equipment. The amount he spent having Adrian cured of what turned out to be knockjoint was not even a significant dent in the income he made from it. He always suspected the priest in Sadrith Mora had deliberately sent him astray.

It took him nearly two years to work his way around the continent, always a few steps behind J'hazarr, sometimes stopping to deal with work – there was always work – or with Adrian's progressively worsening health. He seemed to catch anything and everything, every slightest scratch heralding another infection. Rullus bought a spell that could cure diseases from the only priest in Ald Velothi. It would take him many attempts to successfully cast it, but he had time. There was always plenty of time.

Rullus Ennius came to Ald'ruhn just as Last Seed was becoming Hearthfire. The seasons showed less change in Vvardenfell than in Cyrodiil. Perhaps it was something to do with the magics of the mountain, hulking as it did in the middle of the continent girt by the glowing height of the Ghostfence, or perhaps that was simply what things were like at this latitude. It would get colder, it would get warmer, but it would never snow in Ald'ruhn, he had been told. There was only the dust and the ash storms.

“Your Dunmeris has certainly improved, Rullus old chap,” Adrian said.

They were at the bar at the Ald Skar Inn, under its peculiar domed ceiling that coved straight down to the floor without a real division into walls. Adrian sat straight-backed on a bar stool beside Rullus, so thin that he practically rattled around in his boiled leather cuirass, skirts of the blue woolen robe he wore under it seeming voluminous around his ankles. He was drinking a small glass of flin, sipping it with comportment and control. Rullus stood. In his full armor he weighed around three hundred and fifty pounds, and the bar stools looked as though they'd been intended to hold a slim Dunmer.

“Yes, I rather think that it has,” Rullus said.

“And you've certainly learned to speak well enough for yourself. I shouldn't think you really need me for much of anything any more.”

Rullus looked at the Breton, raising the half an eyebrow that he had on the right side. “Were you concealing a flask somewhere about your person before we came in here?”

“I assure you, I'm not the slightest bit drunk,” said Adrian. “I've just been thinking. I've become... well, expensive to you of late.”

“My dear fellow, you have never been cheap,” Rullus said, smiling his lopsided smile.

“Mm, true, but I have been of use to you. Of what use am I now? Blight cures are awfully dear, and you and I both know it'll be a miracle if you ever find a Dunmer who will sell you that spell.” Adrian sipped his flin, staring glumly down at the bar top. The elf who kept the bar was down at the other end of it bandying sharp words with a young drunk in a fancy embroidered tunic and baggy trousers.

“You're a very devil with the rapier,” Rullus said.

Rullus had never seen him cast a single spell, though as his own skill with Restoration had grown he was able to read an aura of magicka from the Breton when he was close by. They had been attacked together enough times that surely he would have used magicka if he had been able to do so.

“For five, occasionally ten minutes,” Adrian said.

Rullus shrugged. “It's been enough.”

“You don't need me,” Adrian said.

“To what does all this tend?” Rullus asked lightly. “Have you met some handsome Dunmer and decided to settle in Ald'ruhn?” It was two jokes; not only that he might choose to settle here but that he might ever settle on a Dunmer. Rullus had only seen him with Nords and Orcs, the hairier the better.

“Owing to my natural love of bigots and ash storms, yes,” Adrian said, rolling his eyes. They were bluer now than when Rullus had met him, clearer and less bloodshot.

“Then invite me to the wedding, but until then, stop being so glum. There will always be work to do, even when I have found what I seek.” He paused, trying to shape words that had never come easily to him in any of the vernaculars he now mastered. “Without you here it would be... Too quiet. I don't miss being alone with my thoughts, Adrian.”

In the first days of his bereavement he had dreamed always of Olivia's dead face, pale and set and afraid. Over time his dreams had softened, had traveled back to brighter times; occasionally he would even dream that she held their child, the child who had never been born, and that the baby laughed and waved its little fists and called him Da. From the dreams of death he woke cold and furious; but from those dreams of a life that had never been he woke weeping silently. And Adrian would be there, awake because he was awake, handing him the hammer and a pauldron and chattering away about what the dinner parties were like in Bruma.

A little color rose to the Breton's pale cheeks. He lifted his glass of flin silently toward Rullus, who lifted his mug of ale in turn.

“Better days,” Adrian said.

“Better days.” He had never understood quite what the toast was supposed to mean, but Adrian had said it often.


	9. Chapter 9

#  Chapter Nine

 

J'hazarr watched Two-Colors disappear among the crowds of Ald’ruhn before continuing on to the temple. He wondered if “selling petals” was an excuse to rob someone out of his sight, but J'hazarr didn't care as long as it wasn't  _ him  _ she was robbing.

The Dunmer he passed in the temple courtyard glanced over J'hazarr with minor curiosity, nothing more. The ground was bricked in and regularly swept of ash, the walls cleaner than a lot of other nearby buildings. A row of fire ferns in heavy pots lined the walk to the door.

Inside, the stucco walls were unpainted and the rugs on the floors were plain, but a huge fresco of the Tribunal took up almost the entirety of one wall in the main room. The circular pit full of ash and bone in the center always unnerved J'hazarr. It felt fundamentally wrong to him, to leave people's bones just sitting there in a public space. Offerings of flowers and jewelry had been placed on the rim of the pit, along with unornamented cushions where a person could kneel to pray. It was very dim inside; the dome of the ceiling was ringed with glass blocks at its base, but no one had cleared away the ash from last night's storm, so the only light came from round paper lanterns hanging around the perimeter of the room and candles set up by the three triolith shrines.

In one corner, next to a triolith, Hlanis Nirith was speaking while reading from a lectern. Several youths about Two-Color's age were seated on cushions in front of him. The priest glanced up briefly when he heard J'hazarr enter, but turned his attention back to his students without acknowledging the Khajiit. He had a long, dignified face, his beard carefully shaped and trimmed. The hair on his head was tied back with a beaded wrap. There were many more white strands mixed in with his otherwise black hair than J'hazarr remembered.

“ – at times we may find ourselves drawn to one god over another. Almalexia when we desire mercy. Sotha Sil when we desire wisdom,” Hlanis continued with clear and careful enunciation in a voice much smoother than many Dunmer possessed. “But what we desire may not be all that we need. Remember, the thrice-sealed house withstands the storm. I am releasing you early, but that does not mean this time is yours to waste. Reflect on this proverb. Be prepared to explain its meaning tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

J'hazarr waited while the students filed past him, some nodding and greeting him quietly, before approaching Hlanis. He wore layers of crimson over heavily embroidered gold, and now the long sleeve of his robe was draped like a curtain over the book he had tucked under his arm. The wrinkles of his face crinkled up as he smiled.

“ Ah, J'hazarr, have you been well? You're quite a popular man lately, you know.” Hlanis spoke with genuine warmth in near-perfect Cyrodiilic. J'hazarr couldn't help but return the smile. The priest waved an arm toward a side door.

“ Am I?” J'hazarr asked as he followed the priest into a smaller room lined with shelves of potions and books. There was hardly enough room to turn around in inside. Hlanis took his seat at a desk pushed against the wall, setting the book down on its surface.

“ Sit, young man, sit.” Hlanis gestured at the extra chair beside the desk while sliding open a drawer with his other hand and leaning over to rifle around inside. J'hazarr glanced dubiously at the chair – the armrests made it very narrow – before resting his luggage on the floor and carefully lowering himself down into it. He had to wedge himself into the seat by wiggling a bit. The wood creaked under the weight of his armor but it held up.

“ Yes, very popular. This letter came for you... I apologize, I do not recall exactly when. Several months ago. And just yesterday a rather formidable looking Imperial fellow by name of Rullus Ennius came asking about you.” He noted the puzzlement on J'hazarr's face as the Ohmes-raht accepted the lacquered scroll case that must house his letter. “Orcish and ebony armor, bald, a tad busted up in the face.” He pointed at his own face and wagged his finger in a circle, arching one eyebrow. “You don't know him?”

“ No,” J'hazarr said, sitting the scroll case across his lap. He looked down at it, fiddling with the loop of leather pinned with a stud to the cap. He felt sick inside. He knew what the letter was and didn't want to be bothered with this now.

Hlanis sat back in his chair, palms loosely gripping the armrests.

“ He mentioned that he's staying at the Ald Skar Inn. He gave me the impression that his business was related to yours.”

“ I see,” J'hazarr said blandly, looking up at the bookshelf three feet from his nose. The room smelt vaguely dusty even though it looked very clean. Hlanis hummed, a noise of concern.

“ Well,” the priest said, patting his own thigh for emphasis. “I imagine you're weary from travel, and I imagine you'd like a moment alone to read that letter. Shall I set up the cot for you downstairs?”

“ No,” J'hazarr said, pushing against the armrest to shove himself out of the tight chair. “I can do it. I have a friend with me this time, an Argonian girl. She might be coming by also. Ah, I have a favor to ask regarding her. Do you think you could arrange her transport to Ebonheart? I know it's asking a lot...”

“ Bah,” Hlanis said, flopping both hands in a dismissive wave. “It's nothing. Of course I can do this, J'hazarr.” He stood up himself and clapped J'hazarr on the bicep, softly. “Give me some time to make the arrangements, all right? It shouldn't take too long.” J'hazarr hoped that the grin he offered the priest wasn't as weak as it felt.

“ Thank you, Hlanis. I appreciate it.”

“ I know. And _ I _ appreciate the work that you do for my people.” His face changed in sudden realization and the mer fished around in the pockets of his robe. Eventually he pulled out an iron key and held it up for J'hazarr to take. “ALMSIVI walk with you, my friend. We will speak more later.”

The key belonged to a storage closet downstairs, about the size of the office but even more cluttered up with crates. J'hazarr fumbled around in the dark before he found a candle to light, and then he threw his things down atop the crates. Several dusty cots were folded up against the wall, but he didn't bother with that for now. Instead he closed the door and sat down on a barrel to open his scroll case, shaking out the small roll of paper into his palm.

He paused to steel himself with the letter held tautly open in both hands. Then he sighed and began to read.

 

_ Brother, _

_ I hope my letter finds you well. I know we seldom write these days, but I think of you often, and I could not hold myself back from sharing this joyous news: I’ve given birth to a son! He was born to the moons of Dagi-raht and we have named him Raajur, after M'Jasha's father. _

_ Mahirr and his wife recently opened a new opal mine in Orcrest. I hear Khalivandi wants children herself, but you know that brother of ours – he thinks of nothing but work and can never stay put in any one place for too long a time. I don't believe he has the patience for children. _

_ Mother and Father are well. They leave the estate less often as they age, and sometimes speak of returning to Anequina themselves, for the drier climate. I hope they do not go because then I shall miss them terribly, but I suppose this is a selfish thought for a daughter to have. I do want them to be happy. Mother complains that the humidity of Nibenay worsens her arthritis. _

_ Are you still working for the Temple of the Tribunal, I wonder? I know it is dangerous work. I worry about you, although I know I shouldn't. I know that nothing can stop you, J'hazarr. You were always the strongest of all of us and I know that will never change. I hope your work brings you fulfillment. I am proud to say my brother makes this world a safer place for the rest of us. We are all very proud. _

_ I do wish you would come home to visit more often. I know it's a very long distance to travel, but it would mean the world to Mother and Father, and it would mean the world to me. I want my son to meet his uncle. But if you cannot come, I understand. I don't mean to pressure you. _

_ Please let me know if you have a permanent address to which I could write, or perhaps even visit someday when Raajur is old enough to travel. I love you, J'hazarr, and I miss you. If it pleases you, tell me everything you have seen and experienced in that strange Eastern land! I would love to read your stories to little Raajur. _

_ With love, always, _

_ Shadazi _

 

He stared at the paper when he was finished, reading some paragraphs a second time. He tried to feel glad that Shadazi had a family of her own now, but J'hazarr felt only guilt. He shut his eyes and inhaled sharply, letting the paper roll up as he released it. _ I killed him. I killed him. I'm so sorry, Shadazi.  _ It felt like a lead weight sinking in his gut, that horrible sin he could never atone for. It was a black rot devouring him from the inside out and all the Daedric evils he tossed into the fire could not stay its progress.

J'hazarr would have to pen a response later, of course. He would have to apologize for his horribly delayed reply and offer some excuse to explain why she could not come. He  _ was  _ homeless. That wasn't a lie.

_ You could visit her. It would make her so happy. _ J'hazarr sighed again, shoulders sinking with his heavy exhalation. He slipped the letter back into the case and tossed it on top of a crate, near his bag. Then he pinched out the candle with his gauntleted finger and rose to go out, leaving the door open ajar for Two-Colors, if she should come.

J'hazarr's memory of the city was vague, but he thought he remembered the Ald Skar Inn. It was up near the giant crab shell, called Skar. The Ohmes-raht stared glumly at the road as he went. Maybe this Rullus was an adventurer who had heard of J'hazarr – although he couldn't fathom how. The Temple priests that J'hazarr took into his confidence knew better than to blab about what he was doing. Could he be a Legionnaire? Probably not, if he was wearing mismatched armor. J'hazarr was mildly curious but not really concerned.

He got a sour look from a Dunmer coming out the door of the inn who accurately pegged J'hazarr as a Khajiit, or maybe just hated all foreigners, and J'hazarr rolled his eyes as he stepped inside. At this time of day the inn wasn't so busy. A few travelers, mostly Dunmer merchants, were seated at a bar. It was cool inside, with a strong scent of scuttle and herbs that made J'hazarr instantly realize how hungry he was. Rullus Eunice or whatever his name was could wait.

J'hazarr settled himself down on the empty bar stool furthest from anyone else to order some of that scuttle.

 

* * *

Rullus sat crosslegged on a cushion in the downstairs living area of the Ald Skar Inn, polishing a stain out of one of his vambraces. It was old and it was on the black portion of the ebony, where it could be easily missed. Best not to let things build up.

Adrian sat on another cushion beside him, stitching a hole in one of his linen shirts.

“ And what are we doing tomorrow?” he asked eventually. “Did they say anything at the Temple?”

“ There's a shrine to Molag Bal to the Southeast called Ramimilk,” Rullus said. “No one's been out to check if there's anyone there in around four, five months, since the last clearout. It's as likely to be bandits as cultists, but in that case it is still a public service, I should think.”

“ Rather,” said Adrian. “Why don't you leave your cuirass and go eat something? I'll mind your armor. Nobody's likely to try and snatch an eighty-pound cuirass out of a public inn.”

“ I'm not as hungry as all that,” Rullus said.

“ My dear fellow, I can hear your stomach from here, you're just tuning out the noise you're making. Run along.” He made shooing motions with a limp hand. “Bring me a half-loaf of bread if you remember.”

“ I shall.” Rullus set down the cuirass beside Adrian's cushion, giving him an amused look, and went upstairs. He was clad in dark brown linen trousers that were practical for the climate and an off-black tunic of the same color, and a pair of thin shoes that fit easily in his pack. He generally hoped wearing darker clothing would make him look slightly smaller, but he still looked like a tree among reeds standing next to the Dunmer at the bar. He ordered food in a calm mid-range tenor, then turned to glance down the length of the bar, registering that there was someone there with a different silhouette from the locals.

It was a Bosmer in heavy steel armor that looked a little corroded in the grooves and around the edges, a fringe of beard around the edges of his jaw. No, not a Bosmer, an Ohmes-raht Khajiit; there was a tufted tail hanging down behind him as he sat eating scuttle. His face was pockmarked and badly scarred. He was a sturdy enough mer. Looked to be holding up the weight of his armor easily, anyhow.

Rullus became aware that he was staring, no expression on his face, and looked back down at his plate. He hadn't much appetite for it now, but he was going to need his strength. His voice was normal as he asked the bartender for a half-loaf of bread wrapped in paper.

He had expected to feel something more than this. Fear, or furious rage, or even the cold burn that he felt when he saw some of the things that the servants of daedra had done for their ceremonies and sacrifices. Disgust, the kind of disgust to which the Namirans in all their filth moved him. But he felt a small dull pain in his gut, that was all.

_ Well, after fifteen years, what do you expect?  _ Still, he was disappointed in himself. It seemed untrue to the memory of those for whom he had begun the entire journey. He ruminated on that as he chewed his scuttle.

J'hazarr had been served what he thought to be a rather insubstantial scoop of scuttle, nestled at the bottom of a broad-rimmed ceramic bowl and sprinkled with something green and finely chopped. He wasn't sure if the smaller portion meant this was supposed to be fancy scuttle of if he'd been shortchanged because he was an outlander, but J'hazarr decided not to make a fuss over it.

When the barmaid came back to refill his water, he hastily gulped what he had in his mouth and asked, “'Scuse me, Sera. Do you know if there's a Rullus something-or-other staying here? An Imperial with a 'busted up' face.”

The Dunmer woman stared blankly at him for a moment, then turned her gaze toward the opposite end of the bar. J'hazarr leaned back on his stool to look, gripping the counter so he wouldn't tip over backward, tail curving in close to the seat. Sure enough a bald man at least two head's taller than anyone else at the bar was there at the opposite end, his profile more crooked than a shepherd's hook.

“ Oh,” he said, and sat forward again. He scraped the last bit of scuttle from the bowl and into his mouth, washed it down with water, and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin he'd been given before standing up.

The seat directly to Rullus's left was empty. J'hazarr sat down there, back to the bar, left elbow on the counter.

The Imperial finished chewing and set down his spoon, turning to regard the Ohmes-raht with mild surprise.

“ You must be J'hazarr,” he said.

“ I am,” J'hazarr said carefully, drawing out the words. He had turned his head to give the Imperial his full intention but was as relaxed as he could be in armor, leaning back as he was. “A friend of mine at the Temple said you were looking for me?”

“ Indeed I am. In fact, I have been looking for you for more than fourteen years now.” He had a drink of water in turn, setting down the mug and turning to rest a hand on the bar as he looked the Khajiit over, one foot braced against the floor and one against the pole of the bar stool. “I can scarcely credit it, after all these years. I've learned by heart everything that has ever changed about the way you look, albeit always well after it happened. I assume this scar is new.” A blunt finger with no index fingernail traced briefly down Rullus' own face. “I'm Rullus Ennius. There's no reason for you to know that name, of course. I wasn't there that day.”

J'hazarr's face changed gradually as the Imperial spoke, a subtle shift from neutral to constrained horror. The shock drove the air from his lungs and he couldn't get it back. His eyes tracked the movement of the Imperial's finger as the color drained from his face. He could see every pore, every thin crack in Rullus's skin with amazing clarity, but he appeared to be gazing beyond the man in front of him.

_ Fourteen years ago.  _ The words were ice water in his veins.

“ Lambing Green,” J'hazarr said. He was distantly aware of the breathy quality of his voice. His back straightened, shoulders rising as he inhaled sharply and then the look of horror was gone. His hardened gaze met Rullus eye-to-eye, and his next clear thought was not one of remorse for the lives he had taken, nor was it pity for what this man might have suffered. Every muscle of his body grew taut.

_ I don't want to die. _

“ Yes,” said Rullus. “I'm glad you do remember. I've often wondered if you knew any of their names. There were seven survivors at the time that I left, seven of us who didn't drink from the well. My wife's name was Olivia. She was not among them. Our child was not yet born and never had a name. I never found out whether it was a boy or a girl.” His tone was measured as he spoke, thoughtful, and he watched J'hazarr out of small cold brown eyes. Pity he should meet the mer for the first time out of armor, away from his sword. Well, it couldn't be helped. If it was now, it was now.

“ You've been running from Lambing Green since that day, have you not? I've followed you from one end of Cyrodiil to the other, and in a circuit of this continent after that. Whatever did happen to Morga gra-Lumgol? I never found her, alive or dead.”

He remained relaxed. If he had to fight now, here, the first blow would not be his in any case. He had always been certain that J'hazarr would be faster.

_ Our child was not yet born and never had a name. _ The fingers of J'hazarr's left hand, dangling off the countertop, slowly curled shut.

_ It was her, the pregnant woman. Olivia. I killed her. Her unborn baby died with her.  _ J'hazarr was only half-listening to the rest of what Rullus said. He could only see the woman in her flax dress, smiling up at him. She now had a name.  _ Olivia. _

J'hazarr grinned bitterly when Rullus had finished speaking. He could feel that his arm was trembling.

“ Why would I have run? No one in the world knew what I had done. Or so I thought.” But he  _ had  _ been running. From Lambing Green, from himself, from that night in the sewer when he murdered the brother and son of the people who populated his memories.

_ Morga. _ He had not thought of her in ages. All of J'hazarr's rage had been focused on her, at first. But her death brought him no absolution and so he turned his rage toward the Daedra instead.

J'hazarr moved to grip his left hand with his right, a casual movement to conceal the tremor.

“ I killed her,” J'hazarr said in a low voice, eyes darting once to the barmaid to see that she was not near. The black serpent of dread had coiled up in his guts. For so long he'd feared being caught for that. But only he knew where the body was, and Rullus could pin nothing on J'hazarr without proof. “She died painfully, of asphyxiation, if that makes you feel any better. I suppose you'd rather have done it yourself.”

Rullus felt that the world had narrowed, that no one existed inside it except himself and his quarry. All sound apart from the Khajiit's voice seemed dim and far away. He had never heard J'hazarr speak before today, and yet his voice almost seemed familiar.

“ Yes, I would,” Rullus said quietly. “But I am glad that I may stop searching for her. I thank you for that knowledge.” The mer was tense, perhaps fearful, realizing at last what he now faced, but Rullus had become a skilled reader of faces over his years of travel and toil, and he was so intent on the mer in front of him that he thought he might later be able to faithfully describe every tiny smear of burn scar, every misaligned pore. He did not believe J'hazarr was lying to protect her.

“ What happens now depends on you, J'hazarr,” he said. “You may choose to face me now, here. Or you may choose the time and the place. In the end, I will find you. In the end, you will face me and you will answer for what you have done.”

_ I've answered for what I have done every day of my life, _ J'hazarr thought acerbically, but immediately realized that was not true at all. His mental flagellation was nothing compared to what the Legion would have done to him, otherwise J'hazarr would turn himself in and be done with it.

Could this man really kill him? J'hazarr could already sense a vast aura of magicka comparable to his own. The man had dedicated the last fourteen years of his life to hunting J'hazarr. Rullus must know everything about him by now... if he had accessed J'hazarr's records at the University he would know that J'hazarr was a mystic and an alterationist. He assumed Rullus would plan his tactics in advance, while J'hazarr knew nothing of the Imperial or his abilities.

Y _ ou have every right to want to kill me, you fucker, _ J'hazarr thought, jaw clenching.  _ But that doesn't mean I'll let you. _ He twitched as if ready to stand, but then hesitated.

“ I can choose the place?” he asked slowly, visibly relaxing against the counter. His fingers unclenched. “How very obliging. ...Tomorrow. At dusk. At the first bend in the road traveling West.” He spoke haltingly, as if adding each new term as an afterthought. He had no plan to be anywhere near Ald'ruhn tomorrow night, of course. “Would that be agreeable?”

“ Yes,” Rullus said. “When I come there will be a Breton with me, but he will not interfere.” He did not attempt to give his word on that point. There was no reason for J'hazarr to believe it. He reached out slowly to pick up the half-loaf of bread behind him. “I'll leave you alone until then. Make your peace however you can.”

He got up, still moving slowly and carefully, and turned toward the stairs, though he was intensely aware of the faint sound of J'hazarr's breathing behind him. He half-expected the mer to try and stab him in the back. That would be disappointing, but he was prepared for it.

J'hazarr stared at the man's back stupidly as he went away, nostrils flaring, heart trying to lurch out of his chest.

_ I killed his wife. _

_ It wasn't really me! _

_ You have all of his memories, his skills, his thoughts! Every line of your face was the same! How are you not him? _

_ Morga coerced me! _

_ You wanted the power just as badly. _

_ I CAN'T be him. I have no soul. _

_ Then go die if that's the case. _

_ I want to live. _

A million accusing voices clamored inside his head, shouting every argument J'hazarr had put forth to prove his own guilt or his innocence over the years. His lashing tail smacked the legs of the stool and suddenly stopped. The nausea rolled over him then and J'hazarr leaned forward, bracing one hand on his knee.

“ Excuse me, Serjo? Can I get anything more for you?”

It took several seconds to realize the barmaid had spoken. She was waiting for his reply.

“ Yes!” he snapped, waving his hand without looking back at her. “I mean, no. No.” J'hazarr shoved himself away from the bar and hurried out onto the street, into the disorientating mass of color, sound, and scent that was Ald'ruhn under a sun burning too brightly. He walked rapidly in the direction of the Temple, eyes unfocused, forehead throbbing. He had to get away.

_ What am I running from? There's a good chance I could kill that man. Rullus. _

_ But he's innocent. I don't want to kill him! _

He had to run. He had to run. It wasn't even a conscious thought, but it was the only thing J'hazarr knew. He quickened his pace, brushing past a slow-moving Dunmer blocking the path ahead of him.

“ Watch it, n'wah scum,” a gruff voice spat at him from behind, but J'hazarr was already weaving through the crowd.

He blundered into the Temple without shutting the door, ignoring the sharp glares of a few people come to pray, and moved without stopping through the shrine and down the ramp to the lower floor. Hlanis didn't appear to be around, but J'hazarr hadn't really been paying attention. He pushed into the closet and shut the door hard behind himself, plunging the room into darkness, as if he could keep out the thing that was chasing him.  _ You fool. You can never hide from what you've done. _

Two-Colors was already waiting, perched atop a crate, crosslegged, her back to the wall.  She looked up in a fast, twitchy movement as the door jerked open and then shut, only momentarily revealing the familiar bristly-bearded and armored shape against the light; but the scent of him was... wrong. Different than she had ever smelled on him.

_ Sweat, but different, bitter. Fear. _

J’hazarr immediately realized he was acting bizarrely and opened the door again to let in light from the hall, and when he turned he was startled to see the thief atop the crates.

“ Oh, Argonian, you're here. Two-Colors, I mean,” he said quickly. He was breathing harshly, eyes darting around for his things. 

"They let me into the room when I mentioned your name. What the fuck happened?" she demanded, grabbing for her knapsack and her bag of trama thorns.

“ Nothing,” he said, running a palm over his cheek, fingers through his beard to occupy his hands. Then his hand dropped.

“ All right,” she said slowly.  _ Like hell it's nothing. You're practically climbing the walls. _

_ But he doesn't want to tell me, and why should he? Why should he think I can help even a little? I've only ever been useless or dangerous to him. And not even really ACTUALLY dangerous. Just a constant pain in the ass. _

“ My friend, Hlanis Nirith, is going to arrange transport for you. He's a priest here. I –” J’hazarr’s face suddenly changed, as if struck by realization. He continued animatedly, “Hey, I’m going with you. Just to make sure you get to the docks, all right? We’ll part ways then.” His breathing had leveled out as he spoke, and now J'hazarr almost seemed normal again. His tail was as still as ever, but he seemed preoccupied, not totally present in the room with her.

“ I guess we probably won't – no, of course we wouldn't,” she said, and didn't quite laugh, snorting air out through her nostrils. “Well, I guess I ought to say it now, then. Thank you. Not just for this. For not killing me three times. For keeping me warm.”

It wasn't so hard to say it as she had expected. Maybe it was the tot of flin. Or maybe it was that she really needed to be convincing.

So he wouldn't expect her to follow him.

_ Hells if I'm going to just let him go off and deal with whatever this is all alone. What if it's someone like me, but actually good, who might actually kill him? Fuck that shit. Nobody gets to kill the big ugly bastard but me. _

J'hazarr stared uncomprehendingly at her as she spoke. Then he smiled weakly. He held up his hand, hesitated, then moved to place it on her tiny shoulder.

She stared up at him, big-eyed. She was awake and healthy now, not freezing, but still she was not afraid. At least... this fast thumpy thing inside her didn't feel like fear. After a second Two-Colors leaned over and bumped his fist with the end of her nose, filling her nostrils with the scent of him. She wasn't ever likely to forget, but it wouldn't hurt to have it strongly in her mind. Ebonheart was a port town. It would be much busier than Caldera.

J'hazarr's hand was a dead weight just sitting there. His middle finger twitched once like maybe he was thinking of squeezing her shoulder, but he didn't. His lips quivered when she bumped him with her nose – gods, she was almost cute.

“ You-” he faltered briefly. “You're welcome, kid. I'm glad I did it.”

Two-Colors sat without moving for a second, trying to interpret the warm glow that she felt spreading through her. She didn't remember ever feeling it before. Not even when she got paid. Not even when she found a big stash of hidden bread that one time and made it last almost a month. She almost felt guilty that she wasn't going to do what he wanted her to do. She didn't ever want him to move.

J’hazarr was trying to think of something poignant to say when a shadow fell across the crates. He let his hand drop back to his side and turned to look over his shoulder just as Hlanis tapped on the half-open door to announce himself. His head was tilted slightly, peering worriedly into the room.

“ J'hazarr, is everything all right?” he asked.

“ Of course,” J'hazarr said, pushing the door open the rest of the way. Then he backed up onto a crate to provide more space. “This is Two-Colors, the friend I mentioned. And this is Hlanis Nirith. A priest.” J'hazarr felt incredibly stupid. He still found it difficult to keep himself in the present moment. _ I killed her. I killed her. Shut up. You're going to help Two-Colors. _

“ Vetsuth,” Hlanis said, greeting her in Jel. His pronunciation was wrong, but the hello was accompanied by a smile and a deep bow. “It is a pleasure to welcome a friend of J'hazarr.” 

“ Vetsuth,” she replied after a moment's bemusement. She knew her own pronunciation was debased compared to someone from the Marsh, but at least it was recognizable as a real word. “Thank you very much, muthsera. J'hazarr has been very kind to me.”

Her deferential tone was one J'hazarr had never heard, because she'd never used it in his hearing. It was the one she generally used with shopkeepers and, when she couldn't avoid them, guards. J’hazarr crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her sidelong.

When Hlanis straightened, moving a bit stiffly, he said in the Khajiit's direction: “My messenger just returned from the Mages Guild and my friend, Dinivah Folvs, has agreed to teleport Two-Colors to Ebonheart tomorrow morning, before her usual appointments.”

“ Hlanis, d'you think it'd be possible for me to go along to Ebonheart also?” J'hazarr asked. He was much calmer now, able to keep his face and voice neutral despite the accusing voices at the back of his brain.

“ ...I wish you had mentioned you wanted to go earlier,” Hlanis said, pursing his lips in an exasperated way, but his tone did not convey real annoyance.

“ Yeah,” J'hazarr grunted. “There's been a recent change of plans.”

“ I'll ask. I'm sure it's fine. I'll owe two favors to Dinivah instead of one.”

“ I can see to it you get put on a ship all right, anyway,” J'hazarr said to Two-Colors. He set aside the fact that he had only a few drakes to his name and Two-Colors probably had little herself. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he had worked odd jobs to get by.

"Thank you, J'hazarr," she said quietly. "I guess I'll go to bed early, then." Not too sweet, he already wasn't buying it, she could tell. 

“ Yeah, good idea,” J'hazarr said. “I'll join you in a minute. Hlanis, a word?”

The priest nodded seriously, and both men stepped out into the hall, walking to the very end of it to stand in front of a closed door. J'hazarr rested his back against the stucco wall, arms crossing over his chest again.

“ I'm afraid I haven't got any information for you this time, my friend,” Hlanis said quietly. “All of my sources say that their contacts are withdrawing. Failing to let my people further into their confidence. There was even a murder a few months ago when the agent's identity was compromised. The cults are growing more careful, J'hazarr. Dagon's in particular. Which is odd. His followers tend not to be cautious.”

J'hazarr nodded, staring fixedly at the wall above Hlanis's shoulder, brows drawn lightly together. His tail twitched upward once, sweeping against the wall.

“ That's fine,” J'hazarr said. It was the least of his worries at the moment. “I'll ask around in Ebonheart or Vivec.”

Hlanis looked at J'hazarr for a long moment, and the Khajiit knew that he was thinking of asking what his blowing in through the Temple like a high wind had been all about, but the mer ultimately decided against it. Instead he thumped J'hazarr's pauldron and smiled thinly.

“ Gods protect you, J'hazarr. I'll go write that second message to let Dinivah know you're coming as well. You come up to the mess hall when you're hungry and don't hesitate to ask me for anything else that you need.” Then he was off, up the ramp back to the shrine. J'hazarr watched him disappear around the corner before making his way back to the storage room, trying to think of nothing but the present moment and what had to be done the following day. He was not at all successful.

 

* * *

Two-Colors hopped down and put her ear-patch right up to the crack at the bottom of the door, but the two men were talking quietly at the other end of the hall. She couldn't think of a way to get close enough without being spotted, not down here. She shrugged and went to climb back up on the pile of crates to await J'hazarr's return. 

So he wanted to get out of town, fast, but not so fast it couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. What would scare someone like J'hazarr, who didn't care about most things? She'd never seen him scared. Not to where she could smell it.

_ The daedra took something precious from me,  _ he'd said.

She'd thought they must've killed his family or something, maybe a dead wife and kid. But what was there to be scared of, then? It wasn't to do with the Guild, he'd no reason to hide that from her and he obviously didn't think much of them anyway.

_ Not enough information. Get to Ebonheart, follow him, figure it out _ . _ I'm not going to just let him go get killed or whatever's about to happen. Not after everything. _

She would get to see another new town, maybe sell her trama thorns - she had nearly fifty gold again already - maybe buy another set of cheap clothes to wear out of armor if she ever wanted to be out of armor again. Well, if she had to swim it would be better to do it in cloth. At least nick a couple of softer rags or something.

When the door opened she was nose-deep in a small book she had snitched from one of the other rooms. It wasn't very exciting, just a bunch of songs about how great Almalexia was.

J'hazarr shut the door behind himself and began unfolding one of the cots leaning against the wall. It was for Two-Colors, not him. He had his bedroll. The thing was covered in a thin layer of dust and he brushed aside a spider web from its legs.

“ I hope my friends at the Temple don't find their purses lightened by tomorrow,” he said dryly, eyeing the book.

“ Nah. I'm not even going to keep this, I was just bored.” She set it down on the crate next to her. “Besides, I - ”  _ Stole fifteen septims from some idiots at the market. Maybe let's not say that out loud inside a Temple.  _ “ - Sold my fire petals today. And I collected some of those fat vine thorns to sell in Ebonheart. I guess they're called trama. Still don't want to tell me what's going on?”

J'hazarr unbuckled the straps on his bedroll and laid it out on the ground beside the cot.

“ I met a man who wants to kill me,” he said without looking up, sliding off the first gauntlet and tossing it down on a crate. J'hazarr still felt vaguely ill when he thought of the knowledge he now possessed.  _ Her name was Olivia. She had a husband who's been out there looking for me for all these years. _ Belying his inner tumult he calmly continued, “It's fine, though. I've had plenty of people wanting to kill me over the years. After tomorrow I'll be long gone from Ald'ruhn.”

“ Huh. Okay.” She watched him lay out the bedroll as she gradually realized he intended the cot for her. Even very preoccupied he had made that small gesture. It gave her that confusing feeling of warmth in her stomach again. “So why not just kill him? I've seen you kill three people in under a minute. It can't be that impossible unless he's Nerevar or someone.”

“ It's complicated, kid. He isn't someone I want to kill.” His voice was tired. J'hazarr unbuckled the straps of his cuirass next. “Anyway, what are you going to do in Ebonheart? A ship to the mainland won't be cheap. After that you could hoof it to Cyrodiil if you really wanted.”

“ Sell my trama thorns. Look for some other thing people will pay for and go collect that. There's got to be other things growing around there that mages don't want to go collect themselves. Dive for pearls, if I have to. I've heard that's possible around the coast.” She thought about that, then snorted. “Where there's slaughterfish I'll never go hungry, if I don't get eaten by one of the big ones.” Her stomach flipflopped at that idea, but still, what were the odds? It was probably heavily fished around a busy town anyway. There wouldn't be anything as big as that.

_ And watch and see if people are any cannier there, and if they're not, steal my way up to having enough to pay for passage. _

_ Assuming I'm there long enough to even think about that. Who knows where J'hazarr's actually going? _

“ Where will you go from there?” Her eyes were half-lidded, thinking as much as sleepy.

“ I dunno,” J'hazarr said. He had continued to armor down as she spoke. When he had finally unbuckled his boots J'hazarr lowered himself onto his bed, back against a crate. It felt good to sit on something that wasn't a bar stool after having been walking all morning. It was a little too cool in the basement for his liking, but under a blanket it would sure beat the hell out of huddling in a cave, in an ash storm. His arms were propped up on his knees, tail resting limp and half-curled beside himself.

“ I might stay in the city for a while. There's cultists there too, meeting in sewers or back rooms. They only go out to the old shrines to commune with the Princes directly. The barrier that separates Mundus from Oblivion prevents their access to Nirn except through certain conduits, like the statues.”

Two-Colors imagined people sitting in a parlor in Balmora, talking about the King of Rape, or how best to deceive their neighbors and please Mephala. It was a weird, creepy thought, reminding her of the cult of Dagoth Ur that was now supposedly gone. There had been a lot of ordinary people who became Sleepers before the end. She had walked the more softly around anyone who looked even a little glassy-eyed. It was why she hadn't had a drink in so long, in fact.

“If you've got any flin left, would you share it?” he asked.

She was startled into laughter, a high-pitched giggle that she automatically smothered in the crook of her arm. Right. Just because his nose wasn't as good as hers didn't mean he wasn't a Khajiit.

“ I set it down by a shop. Can't go walking around with it for more than a couple minutes. I'm not fancy enough, and some guard would ask where I got it.”

J'hazarr smiled slightly at the sound of her laughter. It was the first time he had heard it.

“ Ah well. I've been months without it before, another night won't kill me.” He barely moved his shoulders as he shrugged, then shuffled around flipping open the bedroll before stretching out on his back. A crust of blood was dried on the inside but J'hazarr didn't seem to care. He crossed his arms behind his head and made a pillow of his palms.

“ Maybe someday you'll be fancy enough. See you in the morning, Two-Colors.”

Two-Colors felt heat rise to her face again at his words. Nobody had ever said something like that to her. It was always do this, do that, here's your money, get out. She didn't even know what to say to it. But he was from Cyrodiil, where there were no slaves, where he probably had been rich and well-known because his family was rich and not because he could pass for a Bosmer. She'd never thought things were really that different there, but she was starting to believe that they might be.

She always slept very lightly, and she always fell asleep fast, accustomed to sleeping in many different places and never being completely safe. That night was not different. At one point she was aware of being cold and she woke up to grope around for the blanket tied on top of her knapsack. It smelled like ashes and J'hazarr. She fell back to sleep at once.

But J'hazarr didn't sleep. He spent a long time staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling, thinking of who he really was. Did the original J'hazarr care at all about the lives he had ruined? He couldn't remember. That part of his memory was completely opaque to him. This J'hazarr, whoever he was, suffered the burden of guilt. That had to mean that he was responsible.

It had not been these bones and this flesh that worked in tandem to tip the poison into the well, but it was the same mind, the same personality that had made the decision. Given a million kalpas, the person whose inherited traits and lived experienced formed the sum of a “J'hazarr” would always have made the choice to poison the well. He could never escape that truth.

The Khajiit shifted around in the dark several times over the course of what felt like many agonizing, sleepless hours. His dreams, when finally he found them, were a confusing clash of images: standing over his own self, awash with an inexplicable rage, burned and bleeding and numb, or looking into the water and finding no reflection. It seemed that a womanly figure in a blue dress was always there, standing at the periphery of his vision, but she was gone when he would turn to look.


	10. Chapter 10

#  Chapter Ten

 

Rullus took the half-loaf downstairs to hand to Adrian, then took up his cuirass to take it back into the room they had rented. He didn't say anything, but the Breton knew. He took up the food and the book he'd been reading (he must've finished his mending long since) and followed.

“ What, Rullus, what is it?”

“ He was here,” Rullus said. “I gave him the choice, and he said he would meet me tomorrow at dusk at the first bend of the Western road.”

“ He – J'hazarr was here?”

“ Yes. I was foolish not to have my sword with me at the bar.” Rullus was checking over his equipment carefully, every buckle, every strap. “I will take it with me to the altar of the Nine. I've been told there is one at the Mages Guild. You needn't go.”

“ What! With the murderer of Lambing Green walking free about the town?” Adrian shut the door behind himself and tugged his leather cuirass on over his head, over his linen robe and thin woolen skirts. This set was dark navy blue. “Besides, I'd like to give an offering to Julianos.”

“ Suit yourself.” Rullus buckled on the harness for the big ebony broadsword slowly, adjusting it to fit without his armor.

 

* * *

Rullus made his offering of septims to Stendarr at the small altar in the alcove of the Ald'ruhn Mages Guild. The priestess watched him deposit his coins in the bowl. She was blond and wore her hair down to her shoulders above her layered blue robes. He was aware of Adrian coughing softly behind his right shoulder.

“ Thank you, serjo,” she said. “Is there something specific for which you would like the Divines entreated on your behalf?”

“ I would ask a prayer to Stendarr for justice,” Rullus said. “If you have the time.”

“ That is a harder prayer than you think, serjo,” she said softly. He looked at her face more closely and saw that she was older than he had at first thought, many fine lines around her eyes and mouth. “Justice does not always serve us in the way that we most hope.”

“ Then I shall hope it serves others than myself,” Rullus said. “Adrian?”

The Breton stepped forward to deposit a couple of coins. “Julianos,” he said. “For... For a blessing.”

“ Of course. Good evening to you both, sirs.”

“ Ma'am,” Rullus said, and dipped his head. It had taken him more than two years to stop tugging his forelock. It was so long ago now. The young man who had ridden out of Lambing Green would not know him at all. He wondered abstractly if the other survivors still lived, if Nerilia would recognize him.

There were those who would say he should have stayed, tried to help the others who had lost someone. Sometimes he thought about going back and trying to find them, if it was not too late.

_ Perhaps after this. If sickness has not taken her, Nerilia will outlive me by many decades. There is plenty of time to search for her, at least. _

“ I suppose we'd better get up early,” Adrian said, as they walked back to the Inn.

“ You needn't,” Rullus said. “There is plenty of time before tomorrow night.”

Adrian stared at him. “You really think he'll show, old man?”

“ He is not a coward,” Rullus said. “You remember the shrine to Boethiah at Selliniri?”

“ Five people,” Adrian said. “All of them armed. One a mage. What a mess that was.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the memory. “But just because he has the ability to fight doesn't mean he will deliberately enter a fight that he knows he might lose.”

“ I think him incapable of nothing,” Rullus said.

“ So we'd better check the fastest way out of town tomorrow, don't you think?”

“ You mean the Mages Guild guide,” Rullus said.

“ That is precisely what I mean, yes. We can afford to travel that route if he does, can we not?”

“ Certainly we can,” Rullus said. “We're doing very well for ourselves after the last shrine.”

“ And if he hasn't left, and he does show up, then I shall apologize handsomely for being a suspicious bastard.” Adrian laughed shortly, then coughed.

“ Are you ill?” Rullus asked, as he pushed through the door back into the inn.

“ No no, old man, not a bit of it. Just the ash gets in my throat, time to time.”

 

* * *

Favise Tharam had just sat down to her supper when she heard a knock at the door. She blew air from her nose in annoyance and stood, tying shut her robe. When she opened the door of the pod, no one was there. The fat dollop of hollowed-out mushroom that served Favise as home and shop rose up from the ground on a thick stem, and a staircase cut from stalk spiraled down to a graveled road. Without leaning aside to check the road below, Favise bent to causally slide the envelope out from under the rock on the landing. She caught a quick whiff of the salty air of Sadrith Mora, cool as night approached, before pulling back inside with the letter in hand.

The envelope was sealed with wax but not pressed with any emblem. Favise carried it the short distance to her table by the hearth, where a jumble of alchemy apparati, bottles, paper packets of ground ingredients, and stacks of papers had forced her plate of boiled nix to one tiny corner. She broke open the seal and tossed the wax chunks onto a candle dish.

The letter inside was written in a crude cipher, embarrassingly simple compared to the complex codes utilized by the Blades, and Favise read the letter while easily translating it in her mind.

 

_ From Lord directly: _

_ Target Ohmes-raht Khajiit named J'hazarr. Burn scars and tattooed stripes on face. Accomplished battlemage, owns steel armor. Eliminate target and all potential allies by any means necessary. Detection is acceptable. _

_ Target will be in Ebonheart tomorrow morning. Unknown after that. Meet Sister Iniel for transport. The wielder of glass aides you. _

 

Favise lofted an eyebrow, reading the letter once more to be sure her understanding was correct.  _ Detection is acceptable. _ The Mythic Dawn did not care if she got caught during the assassination. They were grooming her to become a Mouth of House Telvanni. At this stage in the plan, Favise had assumed she was irreplaceable.

But the death of this J'hazarr was more important than that.

_ From Lord directly  _ meant that these instructions came from Mehrunes Dagon himself, not from the mortal leadership of the Mythic Dawn. It lit a sullen fire in Favise's belly that she was receiving these instructions by letter and not from Dagon's mouth himself. But despite years of unerring loyalty, the Mythic Dawn had not even revealed the location of the secret shrine to her.

She folded the letter and tossed it into the fire. She watched the flames spread and devour every last inch of it just to be sure. Then she resumed eating, calmly, thinking about how she would proceed. She wondered if J'hazarr was the anonymous “hero” who had been killing cultists these last few years. He had done something very serious indeed to earn the wrath of Dagon.

When she had finished eating, Favise went upstairs to ready her bag. It was a large knapsack already filled with potion bottles and dry powders. The ribbon tied to the strap read “Apothecary” vertically in Dunmeris, followed by a drawing of Almalexia pouring liquid from a bottle for the illiterate. Sewn into the lining were hospitality papers registered to her various identities and a document ensuring her diplomatic immunity as a member of the Blades, signed by Emperor Uriel Septim VII himself. Several of the “potions” were filled with drakes and cotton to muffle the sound, just in case she should be searched.

Favise dressed herself in a drab burgundy robe with a short, navy mantle that covered her shoulders and chest and a thick black belt from which hung a coin purse and waterskin. She always dressed plainly, whether she was Favise the Telvanni Scribe or Favise the Apothecary or Favise the Agent. It matched an exceptionally plain face: thin lipped, dark ash in color with broad, low cheekbones and a chin just square enough to look out of place on an elven woman. Her eyebrows arched severely and nearly met in the middle of her black-freckled face. Now sixty six, her accumulating wrinkles had no beauty to mar.

She did not look in a mirror as she brushed and tied back her dark red hair. It was short enough that the resulting tail looked like the bristles of a paintbrush. Then she slipped on her rings, two of dull iron and one of slave's bone and covered them with grey gloves to hide their shimmer.

When she was finished Favise stood in front of her door with the bag on her back, surveying the downstairs workshop of her tiny home for what might be the final time. She had hated the house, small and cluttered and stinking always of alchemy. The shelves took up almost all of the space and were packed with books mostly pertaining to her scribe work, with the occasional treatise on destruction magicka or religious texts on the Tribunal. She was responsible for taking the transcripts of the Telvanni Council's meetings and compiling the information into a digestible format for lesser officials, as well as summarizing the research goals of lesser mages to submit to the Council. It was tedious work that she did not enjoy any more than she enjoyed alchemy.

There was no reason for Favise to inform the Blades of her departure. They knew that her Telvanni masters frequently sent her on absurd missions. They did not know that Mehrunes Dagon was her true master.

Favise impassively turned away from her home, thin lips in their resting frown, and went out to seek the mage Iniel at her private residence for teleportation to Ebonheart.

 

* * *

Ulien Zaelinaat sat in the basement of the Fighters Guild in Ald'ruhn, whetting the edge of a longsword made of volcanic glass. There were those who would say glass could not be sharpened, but they were wrong; it was merely very difficult. A buckler of the same material leaned against his hip as he sat on his bunk, ignored by his guildmates and ignoring them in his turn. The weapon would earn the occasional stare, but anyone who had been around often would recognize him as a Swordsman who often was employed to escort Armigers or academics into deep, dark places. He was a handsome man of some twenty-nine years, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted and five feet ten inches tall, big for a Dunmer. A thin line of pale scar ran from his left ear along his jaw, very visible against his dark blue-gray skin. He wore his black-red hair braided down his back.

A woman he didn't know came in dressed in bonemold, only her long blond hair showing under the mole crab helm. He glanced up as she passed, showing no particular interest, then grunted a greeting in Dunmeris.

“ Hello again, Ulien,” she said, as she sat down on the bunk across from him and pulled out a hammer. The helmet muffled her words slightly. “I understand your mother has been ill.”

“ Did she send a letter?” he asked, blowing on the edge of the longsword as he turned it to inspect the edge.

“ No, I'm afraid it went astray in Ebonheart,” she said.

“ I'll have to go and see, then.”

“ Good journey,” said the Nord, hammering away at her shield. Ulien got up and sheathed his sword, taking up the buckler. His armor was chainmail in the Cyrodillic style, the tunic split just below the hip and hanging to his knees, not so heavy that he couldn't move very quickly while wearing it. He was no mage, but he was extremely fast on his feet.

He went unhurriedly through the streets of Ald'ruhn as the sun began to set, unaware that his eventual target was actually quite close. That wasn't his problem to worry about. In Ebonheart would be someone who knew who he was supposed to kill and possibly why. They might or might not tell him. It didn't much matter, really.  _ I am natural disaster, the hammer of my Lord upon his foes. That is all that matters. _

Eventually he went into the Council Club and back to the back stairs. No one took much notice of him, even carrying glass. He came here somewhat regularly.

There were a couple of rooms to let downstairs. He knew without checking that the last one in the row would be occupied. He tapped on it politely. A woman opened it, a Dunmer with a thin long-boned face and her crimson hair in a sloppy tail. She wore plain homespun clothing and had a bottle of sujamma in one hand, the smell sharp and pungent in the narrow space.

“ Yeah,” she said.

“ Ebonheart,” Ulien said.

“ That's all?”

“ I don't have time for anything else,” he said, but he cupped one of her buttocks on his way into the room, and she grinned lazily.

“ All right, then.” She shut the door behind him.

After a moment she opened it. There was no one else inside.


	11. Chapter 11

#  Chapter Eleven

 

It was dark when J’hazarr awoke, dreams quickly fleeing from memory and leaving behind only a vague sense of dread. He reached over with one hand to grab the corner of the door and shove it open, blinking blearily at the soft light outside the closet. He didn't know what time it was, but someone had been awake to light the candles in the hall, which meant it was likely morning.

“ Two-Colors,” he rasped, closing his eyes again and flopping an arm over his face.

She was awakened by the sound of J'hazarr saying her name. She held very still at first, as she usually did waking up, until she remembered where she was and had a chance to smell and listen for what was going on around her. Still in the closet, still just her and the Ohmes-raht in here. He didn't sound good. Maybe he hadn't slept well.

“ Yah,” she said, and scooted upright to deal with the blanket, then wrestle the cot back into its place.

“ Were we supposed to do something today?” he mumbled, slowly sitting upright and holding one eye closed against the light. The twine that tied his hair had not come free completely but some of his hair had pulled loose to frame his face with frizzy strands. Two-Colors was knocking about, laying the cot against the wall again, and J'hazarr realized they were at the Ald'ruhn Temple.

Two-Colors paused, turning to stare at him. Her eyes reflected the hallway light dimly. “You okay, old man? We're teleporting to Ebonheart, remember?”

Had he gone and gotten skooma while she was asleep or something? Surely not. She'd smell it on him, and she seriously doubted his ability to sneak out without waking her up.

“ Oh, right,” he said, and without leaving his bedroll, J'hazarr leaned over to shove aside the lid of a crate, exposing redware jars and sacks of what he suspected to be saltrice. He pulled one of the jars free and lifted the lid to peer inside, then wrinkled his nose at a strong whiff of vinegar.

“ Breakfast is pickled eggs,” he told her, and set the jar atop another crate while he climbed out of bed. “Eat up while I get dressed.” He began to roll up his bed.

The fears of yesterday seemed suddenly distant. Of course some bald fucker wasn't going to kill him. Of course J'hazarr wasn't to blame for what had happened all those years ago. J'hazarr told himself this as he reached for his canteen and swished water around in his mouth to clear out the stale taste of sleep. The black cancer of guilt infesting his every organ the day before had shrunk to a little speck in his gut.

Two-Colors checked her bags, set them beside her on a crate, and climbed up to sit on it as she reached into the jar to get an egg. She sniffed it, then popped it into her mouth whole, eyes squinted up as she chewed happily. She'd mooched the odd pickled egg here and there. They were a treat.

J'hazarr was cracking up, that was what it was. She'd have to keep a close eye on him. She did not at this point question why she would want to do that, or whether it was a good idea. Cyrodiil would still be there when she was done.

For the first minute or so of assembling his armor J'hazarr moved a bit sluggishly, but as he woke up his speed increased. Before slipping on his gauntlets he hooked a finger onto the rim of the jar in Two-Colors's hands and wordlessly tugged it toward himself, then pulled out several eggs and stuffed them all into his mouth at once.

Two-Colors watched covertly, head tilted slightly, as J'hazarr stuffed his face. This was not nob-like behavior, but it was J'hazarr-like, she guessed. He'd always acted like he gave no fucks about much of anything related to his appearance or behavior. She ate her eggs one at a time. You never knew if you might bite down on one that had been growing and hadn't hatched and choke on a bone.

He brushed the hair out of his face before lowering on his helm and lifting the visor. Why brush your hair when you could hide it? J'hazarr realized he'd left the letter case just sitting there and hastily stuffed it into his bag before slinging that over his shoulder.

“ Talos, those eggs are pretty good. I'll bear no witness if they find their way into your bag somehow,” J'hazarr said, nudging the door open the rest of the way with his shoulder and trotting out into the hall. He had a nagging feeling that they should probably hurry, that they had perhaps slept too long.

And now he was condoning theft openly? Well, he hadn't really complained about the flin, and he had seemed more amused than anything by the book. She eyed his back again, then shrugged and fastened the jar shut carefully before shoving it into her knapsack. It was heavy, but it was food.

A priestess lighting candles in the shrine above looked up in startlement at the armored man and Argonian emerging from below, but her face changed as realization settled in.

“ You are the friends of Hlanis, Serjo, Sera? I'm afraid he hasn't arrived--”

“ Oh, he knew we were leaving in the morning,” J'hazarr said, waving her off as he passed on the way to the door. “Pass along my thanks to him when you see him.”

Two-Colors dipped her head politely to the priestess and hurried after J'hazarr. Ald'ruhn in the late morning was still cool, dust blowing about the cobbled street, and it was already busy: the sound of early shoppers drifted down from the market stairs, and carts and people were trundling up the main street on their way to sell their wares.

J'hazarr's eyes idly scanned the street, although he wasn't looking for anything in particular. That Rullus fellow hadn't bothered to follow J'hazarr and attempt to kill him in his sleep, so maybe he would keep his word and arrive outside of town at the appointed time.

_ Thank the Divines for the noble ones,  _ J'hazarr thought with muted bitterness.

The inside of the Ald'Ruhn Mages Guild was at once alien and familiar to J'hazarr. Alien with its vast central chamber full of dry, cool air and many tiny lanterns throwing their blue light onto whatever little nook or alcove they'd been settled into; familiar with the musty-earthy scent of drying fungus and a more caustic chemical tinge. The magicka of several powerful mages hung heavily in the air, each with its own distinct flavor that J'hazarr could almost feel-smell-taste in his bones.

Part of him wanted to linger, to pick the brains of these mages. Did Armenilon ever publish his third treatise on inflicting disease with destruction magic? Had Joslin Belette ever succeeded in storing a one-use spell on anything other than paper? During J'hazarr's time in the Arcane University, the future of spellcraft had seemed immeasurably bright, with new breakthroughs and discoveries ready to occur at any moment. And  _ he  _ had been born at precisely the right time to witness all of them.

Now J'hazarr felt only the distant echo of that youthful excitement. It was no good, getting close to mages. In the best case he'd meet someone selfish and power hungry like he had been. In the worst case he'd be found out – might a conjurationist or an enchanter, someone used to working with souls, sense what he was? Better not to find out.

Deaf and blind to magicka unless it was right up under her nose, Two-Colors had no inkling of any of this, only that J'hazarr was very quiet. That wasn't a huge surprise, he often didn't say much. Watching his face as they walked through the guild, sidelong and upward and hoping he was not paying attention, she tried to find movement, change, something that would give her a clue. The scars made it more difficult, but it really seemed as though he just did not show much expression. Maybe he practiced. Some people in the Thieves Guild could laugh on the day they'd lost a thousand septims. And he'd never said exactly how old he was, but it certainly was much older than Two-Colors.

A flag with the words _ Guild Guide i _ n Cyrodiilic and Dunmeris hung from the balustrade on an upper level balcony. Twin staircases lead down to the common area, where a few people were already reading or having breakfast at the tables – students, probably, up early doing research in the hopes of outpacing their rivals.

J'hazarr didn't go down, but followed the balcony along the perimeter until they reached the circular platform in the corner where the flag was flown. A Dunmer woman was seated nearby, book over her lap. She looked up when she heard approaching feet.

“ You must be J'hazarr and friend,” she said, smiling politely.

“ And you must be Dinivah Folvs. I really can't thank you enough for the favor,” J'hazarr said, tilting toward her in a bow with one gauntleted hand over his breast. His tail flicked lethargically up with the movement.

“ You might not, Serjo, but dear Hlanis certainly will. I'm always happy to be in his good graces.” She stood, laying her book on the chair behind herself, then gestured at the platform with a graceful wave before settling her hand clasped in the other. Her eyes moved calmly from the Khajiit to the Argonian while continuing to smile in a thin, patient way. “It is easier for me if the two of you are touching so I can cast the spell once. Have you ever traveled by magic before?”

Two-Colors watched the Dunmer woman as they spoke, big-eyed, but there was a lack of any visible glittering aura that would mark her as a mage powerful enough to send other people long distances. She shook her head mutely at the woman's question and edged closer to J'hazarr, raising a hand to his arm. Slowly. She thought him probably safe enough for that now, but it was hard enough to deliberately lay a hand on someone she wasn't already trying to fight.

J'hazarr looked down at the top of the Argonian's head, somewhat obscured by the edges of his own helm, and held out his arm to her. She'd never been out of Balmora, she said – Divines! Nineteen years old and she'd barely even lived. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a slight smile imagining her reaction to Ebonheart.

The mage Dinivah perhaps mistook the Argonian's silence for timidness.

“ Don't be scared, dear. The spell is an odd sensation, but nothing like the motion sickness some people get from ships. You'll barely even notice it. Hold still now, and it'll all be done before you know what's what.” The mage waved a hand at them, fingers unfurling to release a burst of golden light. 

“ I'm not scared,” Two-Colors scoffed, and then the room disappeared in a shower of gold sparks and there was a faint wind against her face, and suddenly the world smelled very differently than it had a second ago. It was less magical and strange than she'd expected,  no real sensation of movement or of the ground changing under foot.

They were just standing on another platform, in another square alcove curtained with fabric thin enough to let in the light. She scooted off the dais quickly. How did they know nobody would arrive at the same time? If you did, did you become welded to the other person and die a horrible mess of bones and organs? She'd never heard of that happening. Maybe the spells worked around each other somehow.

“ This must be Ebonheart Castle,” J'hazarr said, pulling back the curtain to reveal the familiar sort of grey stone walls and floors he was used to, the drab color brightened by rich carpets and tapestries. Some depicted Akatosh, black-on-red, the herald of the Empire, while others depicted Ebonheart's own crest: a serpentine dragon twisted in a single loop against a blue background in yet another interpretation of the Dragon God. Then there were the equally grand flags depicting the golden scales of Hlaalu and what was probably the Dren family crest, a bull netch with its tentacles wrapped around a staff. The room was brightly lit with high chandeliers and sconces lining the walls. The lights gleamed against large glazed pots from which spilled plants exotic in Morrowind but familiar to J'hazarr – bright Foxglove and Dragon's Tongue and lots of ornamental grasses.

They seemed to be in some sort of lobby, with several comfortable sitting areas arranged throughout the large hall. A desk stood near the platform, but it went unmanned. Staircases spiraled up a tower at one end. A bonemold-clad Hlaalu guard and a Legionnaire stood opposite one another by the largest set of arched doors.

“ Now what?” Two-Colors asked, maybe more bluntly than she meant.

J'hazarr tapped the back of his armored fingers on the chin of his helm.

“ I don't know about you, but I haven't even got the gold to put myself up at an inn for the night, so I'd better find work straight away. I'm sure there's a Legion garrison in a town like this one. If I'm lucky I can cash in a bounty on some criminal they're too lazy to hunt down themselves. That'll pay your boat fare and keep me fed for a while after. I mean – Unless you'd rather not be saddled with an old man like me any longer.” He looked impassively down at Two-Colors as he strode lazily off the platform to join her, but the humor was in his voice.

“ I have enough for maybe one night at an inn, but then I wouldn't have any gold left,” Two-Colors said. She eyed him up sideways. Was he really going to make it that easy for her? He didn't need her help. All he'd seen of her was a complete mess and a liability. It had been a bad few days for looking competent compared to the last... Gods, three months she'd had poor but steady work with the Guild? She didn't miss it, she was surprised to realize. Whatever was wrong with J'hazarr, and she was still sure it was a lot, he wouldn't send her in to do something and claim it was less dangerous than it was, wouldn't try and screw her on the split. She was very sure of that, which surprised her as well

“ I guess you can tag along,” she said, and grinned, showing all her teeth. “I was going to the Legion Garrison anyway.”  _ Riding on a winged guar farting rainbows.  _ “C'mon.”

“ Ah, I suppose I will,” J'hazarr said, trotting after her with one corner of his lip raised.  _ How did I get roped into looking after a little street rat?  _ he wondered. J'hazarr was mildly surprised to find that he did not feel at all inconvenienced. It wasn't so bad, having someone to talk to, even if they shared little more than short quips. He had nothing better to do with his time or money to begin with.

Killing, it was all he ever did. This was something different.

In the end, Two Colors had to more or less follow him. She did her best to memorize their route, but all the winding staircases were disorienting. They emerged onto a very broad, straight street and into the warm daylight. Buildings were pressed closer together in Ebonheart, taking the best possible advantage of the smaller amount of available space. By the faint pervasive scent of salt and a lot of long-dead things they must be on an island or a peninsula. The sea.  _ I've never smelled the sea _ , she realized. _ Not that I can remember.  _ She lifted her nose to sniff.

They were on some sort of big square plaza with a bridge off to their right and what looked like a dock district to their left, the high masts of boats jutting into the morning sky. Gulls wheeled and screeched above the boats, looking for fish and whatever else they could get. The street was busy, and there were more Imperials here than she was used to seeing in one place. She couldn't decide if that was better or worse than Balmora's lot of Dunmer.

It was difficult at first to find the garrison because it was made of the same gray stone as everything else, but it turned out to be the squat crenelated tower built into the city wall. It faced a compact row of civilian buildings with shingled hip roofs and plaster-on-wood walls, so they had to walk to the end of a narrow alley to reach it.

Tattered pages had been pinned to a bulletin board by the door, each featuring an extremely crude charcoal portrait that might have been drawn by a child with palsy. Aside from the occasional eye patch or scar they all looked quite identical, except that the elves had comically large ears. J'hazarr set his luggage at his feet to scan the posters with his hands on his hips, reading each with a critical eye.

“ How about this ugly bastard?” he asked, pointing. The information below the picture named the criminal Helbus Idrano, a Dunmer thought to be the leader of a group of smugglers operating out of a grotto a bit North of Ebonheart. It was the only wanted poster that had any real information about the criminal's whereabouts, and it was close by. There was a long list of the ships he had supposedly robbed and which goods, but J'hazarr didn't read it. The mer was worth five hundred septims alive and that's all J'hazarr really cared about.

Two-Colors squinted at the picture, eyes flickering as she read.

“ Five hundred's not that much for risking your ass, but I guess you get paid less for honest work. Sure. Why not. Should be easy for you and me both.” It should be easy for just J'hazarr, but if she was going to have a go at real work she should at least try the hard stuff too, right? She wasn't afraid. Nobody could say she was afraid. It was just that selling alchemy ingredients was easier. “Lemme get rid of the trama first?”

“Sure thing, kid.  Lead the way.”

Two-Colors ended up selling the bag of thorns to an alchemist with a narrow storefront and a sour face, an older Imperial with a long gray beard. He gave her twenty septims. She stowed it in her pockets out of old instinct. It was automatic to avoid revealing the contents of her purse, even to J'hazarr.

“ So,” she said to J'hazarr as she came out of the shop, hands on the straps of her knapsack. “Which way is North?” He tilted his head to eye her up sideways, not quite sure if the Argonian was trying to be funny. Her tone suggested she was serious.

“ The sun rises in the East,” he said, nodding seaward as they walked. It was the only direction not obscured by roof or parapet. It was too late in the morning for Magnus to set the sky aflame, but the bright orb was clearly visible hanging over the Inner Sea. “So in the morning, North is to the left of the sun. West is opposite East and South is right of East.”

Presently they passed an obscenely tall sculpture of a dragon forever frozen in a spiraling skydive, wrought entirely from ebony and speckled with white gull shit. J'hazarr found it incredibly humorous that the Imperials had raped Morrowind of its most valuable natural resource and used it to build a monument honoring the occupying Legion AND an outlander religion. He smirked inside his helm as they passed under the grand arch of the Northern gatehouse – the portcullis was up during the day.

“ So at night it's the opposite, then?” She gawped openly at the dragon statue as they passed, turning to walk backwards so that she could look at it a little longer.    


“ Yes – I mean, no, the directions don't switch, it's just that the sun –“ J'hazarr looked back to see that he'd lost Two-Colors to the statue, so he just sighed and stopped talking. He kept on walking. He wasn't going fast enough to lose her.

That much ebony must have cost worlds. She couldn't even imagine how much. More than the daedric bracers had been worth, probably. She still felt a pang of lingering resentment over that, but it was harder to hang onto it now. She turned hurriedly to catch up with J'hazarr as they reached the gatehouse. She eyed the metal points above their heads warily, part of the - portable something? She couldn't remember what the lowering spiky gate was called. She'd only ever seen one in a picture in a book she had been paid to steal. She'd had to double-wrap it in oilskin for the swim back.

A bridge stretched out in front of them, broad as any road and flagged the whole way across, connecting Ebonheart with the mainland to the North. She was a little relieved to see the big mushrooms on the other side. Being this far above water was uncomfortable. She didn't believe falling in would probably do worse than bruise her, but that much air between her and anything made her feel twitchy. There was traffic, and one or two people glanced curiously at the Khajiit and the Argonian together, but who cared what a couple of betmer did? He was Bosmer-enough looking that perhaps some of them thought she was his slave.

She felt another small slow burn inside at that thought, but J'hazarr had never justified that. In their very first conversation he'd said I _ 'm a Khajiit myself, if you hadn't noticed, _ as if the ability to pass didn't really matter. Maybe it mattered less than she assumed. Or maybe he'd been raised in such a rich family in Cyrodiil that he just didn't understand at all how slavery and the bigotry that went with it worked.

“ I have a question,” she said.

“ What's that?” he grunted, glancing sideways. From his vantage point he could see the top of her flat head and one yellow eye. He could only just see a hint of white throat directly above her collar.

“ That first night,” she said. “I admit there's things I don't remember real clearly. But I think you said you weren't a slaver because you were a Khajiit. Do you really not notice people treat you different for how you look?”

“ Sure, I notice,” J'hazarr said, putting his eyes on the road again and shrugging one shoulder. “But that's at first glance. They're bound to notice the tail at some point.” He weakly slapped said tail against his leg for emphasis. “But I think when I'm afforded respect it's because of my educated background more than that I look like a mer.”

“ Probably,” Two-Colors conceded. “There was an Argonian at the Guild. He had a fancy robe, and he smelled like he hasn't been eating bad food for a long time.” She tilted her head at the movement of the tail and felt another spike of embarrassment as she remembered what she'd done the other night. He'd never said anything about it. Maybe it was embarrassing for him, too. She quickly looked away from it.

J'hazarr saw quick movement from the corner of his eye, but when he looked down at Two-Colors she had turned her face away from him. He wrote that off as probably nothing important; she could just be looking at the scenery. The cantons of Vivec loomed from the sea to their right. The cantons furthest from land were surrounded partly by docks and partly by a floating shanty-town on rafts. Gondoliers ferrying pilgrims to the Palace zipped past one another on invisible throughways, while others carried goods inland from the docks or even hawked wares raft-to-raft. The city was visible because only a small strip of land lay between themselves and the bay, but the people there were nothing more than little gray smudges from this distance.

 

* * *

Rullus Ennius was up early, as he generally was. He did not dream much lately. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad sign. He quietly put on his armor, a lengthy and methodical process that the Breton had learned to tune out and slept right through, lying on the other small bed with his back to Rullus. His breathing was wheezy and labored, but it had been more or less that way all of the time that Rullus had known him. Maybe it was worse lately.

When he was clad he went over to the foot of the other bed and said, in a normal voice,

“ Wake up, Adrian.”

The Breton snorted, then coughed, squinting his eyes open.

“ Right you are,” he croaked, sitting up and running the back of his hand across his nose and mouth. Even out of its thong his pale hair didn't get very disheveled. It was fine and very thin. “Be right with you, old chap.”

Rullus went up to get breakfast for them both while Adrian was getting ready, and then they collected up their bags, one each, small, and headed for the Mages Guild some minutes behind their quarry.

“ Excuse me, Sir,” Rullus said to the tan-colored Argonian in the green robe. “Have you seen J'hazarr this morning? An Ohmes-raht Khajiit about so tall. His face is scarred.”

“ One has seen such a Khajiit, yes, with a little Marsh-one,” the Argonian said, tilting his head curiously at the two men. His accent was heavy. The Guild was not busy this early in the morning, and there was no one else in the dim, cool lobby. Voices could be heard from the next room, echoing slightly against the high walls. “He spoke to Dinivah, one thought, but where he went is not known. Perhaps they might ask her.” He pointed to the archway.

“ Thank you,” Rullus said, and turned that way.

“ I told you so,” Adrian said.

Rullus waved a hand irritably. “Yes, yes, you were right. We'd better give him a few minutes' lead time. He may panic when he sees us, and I don't want him to hurt a civilian.”

Rullus and Adrian materialized in Ebonheart at roughly the same time J'hazarr and Two-Colors reached the garrison. They looked around the room, but he had not been so obliging or so stupid as to loiter in the receiving area. A couple of people stared at the burly Imperial in the ebony armor as they headed out. Rullus stopped to ask directions out to the street at one point. Even to an Imperial the layout was not the clearest. Eventually they stood on the cobbled street. The sun was not yet high, but the morning was definitely growing old, shadows growing shorter and the light reflecting from the cobbles more widely and brightly.

“ He'll try to find work from the legitimate authorities,” Rullus said. “He always does. There's no Temple here, so that means the Imperial garrison and probably bounty work.”

“ So he'll be right out of town again,” Adrian said, squinting, but not complaining at the probability of a long walk.

“ More than likely,” Rullus said. “I also think that he is not foolish enough to just stop running when he hits town. Why don't you go ask at the docks if he's left on a boat, and I'll take the main road out of town? He won't have got far either way. It should be easy to find him if we're quick.”

“ Assuming he hasn't teleported out again,” Adrian said.

“ Very unlikely. He is no longer Guild. I suspect he had to call in favors to get himself transported by the Guild this time.”

“ All right, then. I'll look about me and then head out on the road with whatever I know,” Adrian said.

“ Good man.” Rullus slapped him on the back, very carefully, and turned toward the distant gates. He walked at a good pace, accustomed to the weight of his armor. By now he knew the rhythm that would get him where he wanted to go with the least sweat and effort, and he settled into it easily, arms swinging slightly at his sides, hands half-closed inside his gauntlets. Through the slit in his helm he could see a long slice of the road up ahead. It didn't give him tremendous peripheral vision. On the other hand, with full armor and his helm there was almost nothing that could kill him in one blow. And if he did encounter such a creature, being warned in advance might not help. It would certainly be enough against J'hazarr.

The Argonian mildly concerned him. Perhaps it was some Temple pilgrim who had no idea what he was. It wasn't tremendously likely, but it was possible. Even if it was another mercenary, they probably did not deserve to share his fate. He had no spells intended to non-lethally subdue anyone; indeed, he had no offensive spells at all, for he had only ever learned from the School of Restoration. He would have to warn them off, fight them if necessary, and heal them when J'hazarr was dead.

Part of him wanted to run ahead, though he knew it would tire him too quickly in his heavy armor.  _ Plenty of time. _ There would always be plenty of time, and one day J'hazarr would grow tired. And when he did, Rullus would be there.

 

* * *

“ But you know, that was stupid of me to say,” J'hazarr said slowly, turning his attention from the city to Two-Colors. “Betmer sell out their own kind all the time, and even if I hadn't been a slaver I don't blame you for being suspicious of a stranger...” He trailed off as he realized the click-clack of heavy armor had been audible for some time now, but after the bustle of the city he hadn't paid it much mind. Now he turned to glance behind and saw that a large man in a motley assortment of ebony and orcish armor was behind them on the road. J'hazarr turned back around, disinterested now that he'd discovered the source of the noise.

“ Anyway,” he continued. “I'm sorry for that.”

J'hazarr stopped abruptly.

Hlanis’ words came drifting back to him:  _ Orcish and ebony armor, bald, a tad bit busted up in the face. _ J'hazarr felt a chill on the back of his neck. He turned again, this time moving his entire body so that he could see clearly.

“ Oh, I uh. I don't care,” Two-Colors was saying. “A lot of stupid things were said that day.” She'd called him a hatch-fucker, for one. She'd honestly thought that he was. That really did seem stupid now.  _ Come on, how was I to know? He's not like other people. He doesn't act by rules that make sense. _

She realized J'hazarr had stopped walking. Two-Colors turned back as well, nostrils flaring:  _ metal, smoky not-quite glass, Imperial, a healthy male. Not afraid. Not excited enough to stink of sweat. _

The man in the heavy armor reached up to the hilt that was visible over one shoulder. His other fist tapped his chest, and a small burst of purple-blue magicka dissipated into his cuirass. The ebony sword made a long metallic slide emerging from its sheath.

“ I suppose I was foolish to believe anything that you said,” Rullus said from inside the helm. His voice was only slightly muffled, clearly recognizable.

“ Shit,” J'hazarr hissed, slapping down his visor as he stepped toward the man to interpose his body between the Imperial and Two-Colors. He was too far away to get a sense of what spell had been cast. J'hazarr tossed his bedroll and bag onto the ground, yanked the morning star up from his belt and unfurled the fingers of his left hand. Purple magicka poured from his palm to spiral around his body, solidifying into his translucent, flickering shield.

“ Hide,” he growled at Two-Colors, and strode toward the man with his bristling tail held in a stiff half-arc. His voice was cold when he spoke again, a few feet away from the reach of the Imperial's much longer sword. “You were foolish to throw your life away chasing me.”  _ Just go, you bastard! Don't make me do this! _

Two-Colors took a couple of rapid steps back, heart jumping into her throat, but all she could now see was J'hazarr's back.  _ There's nothing you can do to a giant wall of meat covered in armor unless you get a solid hit in around a seam, and what are the odds? Run and hide and sneak back around. It's the only good option. _

She turned and ran, tail straight out behind her. When she was far enough up the road to have escaped both their notice she would jink over into the bushes and start back on all fours. There wasn't as much cover as she would like. Sometimes she'd have to go from comberry to mushroom to taller patch of blue flowers. It would take time.

Rullus gripped the round ebony shield in his left hand and the orcish blade in his right. The shield was enameled solidly in the center where the device had once been carved. Not one line of the head of Boethiah was visible any more, only smooth black surface, chipped here and there.

_ Hide?  _ He was momentarily startled. Up close the Argonian looked incredibly young. It did not surprise him that J'hazarr assumed he would hurt an innocent. The Khajiit knew literally nothing about him except that his thirst for revenge had driven him hard enough to spend fourteen years pursuing the murderer of Lambing Green. What surprised him was that J'hazarr would try to shield another.

He didn't have time to worry about that. The important thing was that she was out of harm's way, and the killer of twenty-seven souls stood before him, the end of more than a decade of pain and strife and hard struggle. His resistance to magicka would be very potent for the next couple of minutes. He must not waste the time. Rullus took two swift steps forward and swung the blade sideways at about shoulder level, hoping to bludgeon the Khajiit off-balance. He knew that he would not pierce the armor except with a very powerful blow straight on, especially through the shield.

J'hazarr stepped right, planting his boot firmly against the ground and hunching his left shoulder when the blade came at him. He felt the metal-on-metal clang in his teeth. The impact rocked him and J'hazarr had to scuttle sideways to keep himself from tipping over, circling in closer, tail lashing to one side as a meager counterbalance. He raked his morning star at the rim of the Imperial's shield, trying to drag it down with a spike, and violet magicka flashed from his left palm as he sought to grab the Imperial by his weapon-arm. It wasn't until he was close enough to touch Rullus that J'hazarr realized his burden spell would be resisted:  _ Resist magicka. _ That's what he had cast.

Rullus allowed the shield to be pulled down, to engage J'hazarr's weapon. As the Khajiit stepped in to grab at his sword-arm he felt the pulse of magicka between them and felt himself grow a little heavier.  _ Burden _ . His resistance had shrugged off much of the spell's effect, and he was strong enough to stand up under the additional weight. He had never hoped to match J'hazarr's speed. Instead he took a sharp step forward between J'hazarr's arms and jerked his helm down toward his enemy's, ebony on steel.

The narrow field of vision allowed by his visor slit did not allow J'hazarr to anticipate the head bash. Without magicka a close-range fight with this beast of a man was suicide, but before he could back off an ebon helm smashed into his forehead with an ear-splitting crash. The world might have blinked out for a second. J'hazarr crumpled, hitting the ground hips-first before collapsing onto his side and then onto his back. A throbbing pain encompassed all his head. He couldn't even tell that steel was gouging into his forehead below a massive dent, but he was aware of something warm and wet trickling down along his nose. A fuzzy pair of armored men towered over him beyond the breaths of his visor – he saw only the endless blue of the sky through the eye-slit – and a twitch of his fingers told J'hazarr that he had dropped his weapon.

The impact was hard, but not hard enough to make Rullus dizzy. He needed a step to regain his balance, shaking his head as the momentary pain of impact faded, and then he realized he pressure on his shield was gone and was looking down at his fallen foe. J'hazarr lay on his back, his sword inches from his hand. His helm was dented.

_ So easy? No. It can't be. This is some trick. He wants me to get closer so that - _

_ He's bleeding from under his helm. Do it now. _

Rullus stepped forward, raised the longsword, and drove it downward with his full weight behind it toward J'hazarr's armored chest, a blow that would bring him to one knee to achieve its fullest force.

Two-Colors wriggled forward under a comberry bush, listening to the scuffle of feet, and then a loud clashing thud.

_ What?  _ She scooted forward to peer at the road, just in time to see J'hazarr hit the ground, the big Imperial shaking his head. _ No no no no! _ She dove and rolled from cover, scrambling to her feet to run along the side of the road back toward them, but she could see that she would not be in time. Her mouth gaped in a silent scream. _ J'hazarr! _

J’hazarr’s reaction was automatic, without time for thought. From the deepest corners of his not-a-soul J'hazarr scraped up the last of his magicka, forcing it to gather and compress to a tiny pinprick of energy in his chest. His vision was too fuzzy for a precise attack – J'hazarr had to waste magicka by shaping it into a thin band that he slammed against the blade to yank it sideways. The telekinetic attack was visible only as a pink glow when the magicka met metal and then it was gone.

The blade buried itself in the ground a couple of inches deep as Rullus' knee hit the ground beside J'hazarr's ribcage. He was taken by surprise, for of the different abilities he knew J'hazarr to possess, telekinesis was not one anyone had apparently survived to describe. With a roar of fury J'hazarr flung himself at Rullus from the ground, and a flailing arm caught at the strap of his poleyn, shoving him over sideways. He hit the ground on his shoulder with an audible grunt and rattle, already trying to roll away. He stubbornly kept his grip on the sword. It came free of the earth with a small spray of dirt.

Two-Colors skidded to a halt, still some twenty yards away, noticed by neither combatant. She began to edge around to one side, back toward cover, one hand covering the end of her muzzle. Her heart thundered in her ears, and for a second she thought she really would throw up.

The distant pit-pat of dirt flecking his armor like rain was dwarfed by the thunder of blood in his ears. J'hazarr rolled again and shoved himself up on his palms to scrabble after the Imperial on hands and knees. He couldn't see much. Blood had run into one of his eyes. But with a grunt he lunged at the man from his knees to grab him by the sword.

His magicka was gone. J'hazarr felt the weary ache of it, a hollowness in his bones. Wrestling that sword away was the only way he was going to survive.

Slowed by his own weight and by the burden, Rullus had only just made it back up to one knee and one elbow. The bucket-shaped ebony helmet clanked around abruptly as he tried to move his right arm and found he could not. The Khajiit had hold of the blade with both hands. His grip was stronger than Rullus had expected. This, this was the enemy he had expected to face, tenacious and brutal. The Imperial jerked up to his knees as he swung the shield, trying to bash J'hazarr away and break his grip.

Two-Colors very slowly edged back next to the trunk of a giant mushroom, crouching in the shadow. Her tail curled apprehensively around her ankles.

J'hazarr let go of the sword with one hand to protect his face. The shield bashed into his arm and knocked his vambrace into his own helm, and the force of the blow nearly knocked him back. He felt the orcish blade bite into the leather palm of his pauldron, but J'hazarr did not let go; he held tighter and levered himself back up with his grip on the sword, growling, and grabbed at the man's shield to try to yank it down.

Rullus was silent, no sound other than his breathing answering the guttural noise in his enemy's throat. There was no going for the head-butt again, the angle was wrong and he'd just land on his face. Instead he shoved one knee forward, planted against J'hazarr's cuirass as he tried to haul himself onto his feet against the weight of shield, sword, and Khajiit.

The shove knocked him back; J'hazarr released his grip on the sword and threw himself into a roll when he hit the ground. He'd have a few seconds as Rullus gained his feet. He was crawling away, breathing harshly through his nose, when J'hazarr saw a bright flash from the corner of his eye slit: the sun catching on his morning star. J'hazarr grabbed it from the ground and lumbered up in an extremely ungraceful transition from crawling, to stumbling, to jogging, tail swinging wildly behind himself. He swung around to face the Imperial when he'd righted himself, readjusting the morning star in his hand to hold it by the hilt.

Rullus pushed himself up very deliberately, shield upraised, blade at the ready. It took him a solid three seconds to get upright and braced before he could worry about the location of his foe. He faced the Khajiit across a couple of yards of road, a small cloud of dust settling around them. The Imperial was breathing harder than he liked, pauldrons shifting up and down. Even a small burden added weight. But he was not yet tired enough to feel any dragging in his limbs, any heaviness in his chest. He could go on yet for a long time. Long enough that he must not forget to recast the resist, or J'hazarr would simply try and suck the life out of his body.

He also knew that if it came to purely a contest of stamina, the lighter man would eventually outlast him. It was almost inevitable. It must not come to that. Rullus moved forward, head down, pauldrons hunched up as he held his shield at the guard and his sword back in his right gauntlet.

J'hazarr backpedaled, keeping the distance long between them. He was out of magicka. His weapon had the shorter reach. Something was wrong with his head; he had cotton in his brain. This man had planned for years how best to kill him! J'hazarr pushed air out from between his gritted teeth, a small, silent hiss of frustration to match his flicking tail.

“ Why chase me!” J'hazarr snarled, a furious exclamation more than a question. It was accompanied by the angry gesturing of his free hand. “You've thrown away your life when you could have been living it!”

“ Lambing Green was the life I had.” Rullus' answer was deliberate. He didn't even sound particularly angry. He'd had a lot of time to think it over. “Without Olivia and the baby, all that I had was you. Fourteen years of shaping the dead man you left into a living one again. Fourteen years of work to keep me breathing.” On the last word he took another swift step forward and jerked the sword around underhand, trying to smash J'hazarr's leg out from under him.

Those words were a knife of ice through J'hazarr's chest. Rullus could not see the brief twitch of horror behind the mask of steel before J'hazarr's expression hardened again.

_ I took everything from this man. _ The Khajiit easily danced sideways and backward out of the reach of the man's sword. He would never be hit as long as he didn't choose to engage.

_ People lose loved ones all the time! They have to move on! _

_ You never moved on. Why would he? _

From her hiding place, Two-Colors could hear them with perfect clarity.

_ It's complicated, kid. He isn't someone I want to kill. _

_ Without Olivia and the baby, all that I had was you. _

_ St. Aralor on his knees. He killed this man's family. J'hazarr doesn't want to kill him because of what he's already done. But why would he do that? He went so far out of his way to save me! I'm not worth anything to anyone, nobody's daughter, nobody's wife!  _ She still felt sick, fear and confusion churning up her guts, eyes squinted half-shut in pain. She couldn't close them all the way. She had to see.

“ Killing me won't bring them back, and it won't make you feel any better,” J'hazarr spat, still moving backward, his voice still filled with cold fury. Fury toward this man for existing; for surviving, for living with a pain J'hazarr hadn't meant to inflict. Fury at himself for his guilt.

“ No, nothing can do that,” Rullus agreed quietly. “But it will ensure you never do it again. That you never deceive anyone else with your pretended virtue. And then perhaps I will be able to rest. It's been a long fourteen years, J'hazarr.” As he spoke he pursued, not fast, but not stopping. His next swing did not come anywhere near the Khajiit, but it didn't throw him off-balance, either.

“ Talos take you,” J'hazarr growled, running backward more swiftly now. He flipped up the visor of his helm and lifted his chin to call out. “Two-Colors! Are you here!?” The air was cold against his blood-wet skin.

Rullus just shrugged a heavy pauldron.

Two-Colors flinched at the sound of her name.

“ I'm here,” she said, then cleared her throat and repeated herself louder, trying to make her voice sound less high and reechy. “I'm here!”

“ Run,” he called out to her. Still moving backward, he turned an icy glare on Rullus.

“ I'm giving you your life,” J'hazarr said, a dangerous edge to his voice. He wondered if Rullus knew it was a bluff, if he knew J'hazarr's magicka was gone. “Next time I will not.” Then he turned and sprinted down the road, Northward, away from Ebonheart and the Legion who just might take Rullus's accusations seriously if he should choose to report J'hazarr as the poisoner of Lambing Green.

His bedroll and his bag were on the road behind Rullus. J'hazarr had moved past them ages ago.

Two-Colors waited to see what J'hazarr was doing. Then she ran off up the road, easily overtaking him with her tail straight out behind her, jaws and nostrils clamped tight shut.

Rullus stared after them from inside his helm, slowly lowering his sword. He would never catch the betmer running. He was good for maybe a fifty yard sprint in full armor and he'd better not have to fight for more than a few seconds at the end of it. It had been enough to stop a couple of fleeing cultists. It would not be wise to attempt it against J'hazarr.

_ There is time. There is always time. _

He turned to look at the things J'hazarr had left in the road. His own bag lay not far off, dropped and unheeded from the first moment of the fight. He shrugged again, sheathed his sword, and went to pick them all up and hoist them to his shoulder. He would not go back to Ebonheart. Adrian might catch up to him or might not. The Breton was a grown man and able to take care of himself, and it wouldn't be the first time work had separated them.

Why had J'hazarr tried to argue with him? In his guilt and desperation did he really think that he could talk Rullus out of the pursuit of most of his adult life? He had been without his wife and child longer than he had been with them by a significant margin now. That twisted his chest with sudden pain as he realized it.  _ If she saw my face now she would scream, not knowing who I was. _

The Khajiit and the Argonian were already out of his sight, vanished in the dust. Rullus tugged his water skin free of his knapsack, pushing his helmet back on its thong so that he could drink, and he trudged forward up the road.


	12. Chapter 12

#  Chapter Twelve

 

J'hazarr didn't stop running until he was panting so hard that he could barely breathe, his heart threatening to hammer its way out of his chest. He could feel its throb over every inch of his body, but especially in his head, at the gash where a mass of dark blood had begun to congeal. The road had wound its way around thin copses of trees or towering mushrooms to block the view of the battle site.

J'hazarr finally slowed when he could run no more, armor clack-clacking with every heavy step. Then he stopped completely, shoving the morning star into its holster on his belt and bending forward to pant with his hands braced against his thighs. He blinked at a drop of warm liquid falling past his eyelid. J'hazarr realized it was sweat, not blood. He was covered in it.

Two-Colors listened to him breathe louder and louder, but her nostrils were protectively shut as she ran. It wasn't until he slowed to a halt and she turned to scissor them open a notch that she caught the hot spine-rippling stink of sweat and fear and -

Blood. He reeked of blood.

“ You're hurt,” she said. “Get the helmet off, let me see.” Even now she didn't reach for it herself. Nineteen years of instinct didn't go away in one short week.

She was panting a little, but she had had to run a lot in her life, and that hadn't changed much lately.

_ Two-Colors was hiding right there in the bushes. Is she not afraid, after what she heard? _

J'hazarr turned his face slowly to look at her, his expression conveying nothing but his weariness.

“ It doesn't feel... serious,” he breathed, straightening and sliding off the helm. He inhaled deeply when his head was free of it, revealing a shallow gash straight across his forehead where the steel had cut him when it caved in. His bangs were plastered to his skin with sweat and blood. He shifted the helm under one arm and looked down at her while gingerly touching the cut with the fingers of his other hand. He winced and withdrew.

“ If it's not bad enough to bleed still, I'm not wasting a potion on it. Damn it to Oblivion, I've lost my bag.” He glared back down the road with a dispirited twitch of his tail.

He still had his potions, five heals and three magickas in his belt pouch. He had no more gold. They would have to last.

“ Unless it was something personal, we can replace what's in your bag. Fuck it,” she said. She squinted at the black surfaces of his eyes. “Can't see the apples of your eyes so I can't tell if you're right or just confused.” She had one potion of healing, one. The bubbling panicky feeling in her guts said to push it on him right now. The thinking brain that had survived the streets of Balmora said wait. He'd just admitted he had some still. If he collapsed she could use one of his.

_ Ask him about it before he has a chance to calm down, to turn to stone again. _

“ J'hazarr, what exactly happened fourteen years ago?” she asked. She thought she did it very calmly. Her voice hardly quavered at all, and only on the word “happened.”

“ Fuck,” J'hazarr said, running the rough leather of his gloved palm over his face before letting the arm drop heavily down. He tilted his face toward the sky, away from her. The sun glinted off the domes of Vivec's cantons.

_ What did happen? Are you J'hazarr or not? Were you first born those fourteen years ago? _

_ No, you're not J'hazarr. But you're not  _ not  _ him. You can't cast away your guilt so easily. _

“ I murdered his wife. His unborn child. And many others. I didn't know him at all. I didn't know she had a husband who was gone, who would come home to find them all dead, who would hunt me all these years.” As he spoke he moved lethargically to open his belt pouch. J'hazarr started walking again, away from the road and toward the Eastern coast, with a heavy, plodding gait like that of a drunkard. The branches of a dead bush scraped against his armored thigh and he ignored it, letting the smaller twigs snap as he went.

“ I poisoned them as an offering to Vaermina,” he said, lifting the vial from its pouch. He stopped walking long enough to uncork it, then drank as he resumed his step. He stifled a sigh as magicka flooded his body. It felt so much better than the cessation of pain.

The tall grasses eventually gave way to a flat plain of pebbly sand, dirty with seaweed and other washed-up debris. Sometimes garbage from Vivec. Large mudcrabs coated in filmy green algae sat here and there, as inert as the rocks they mimicked.

J'hazarr stopped just before the reach of the waves that washed gently over the beach, leaving a trail of deeply-sunken boot prints behind.

“ I knew it was wrong,” J'hazarr said quietly, staring out at the ocean. “He –  _ I  _ did it to please my lover. I told myself the world would never miss a few provincial hicks.”

Only at the last did the hint of pain creep into his otherwise emotionless voice.

Two-Colors watched him very closely as he spoke, so closely that she almost tripped once before her foot found purchase. After the first branch hit her in the side of the face she caught the others with her hand. He hadn't healed himself, but he immediately looked better after he'd taken whatever-it-was. An ugly thought occurred to her, but she knew extremely well what skooma smelled like, and it wasn't that. It was only faintly herbal, with the spicy feel-not-smell of something incorporating magicka.

_ Not skooma. Not booze. Some other potion. _

The first part of it she had already heard, but what followed seemed worse. Horror was a cold and awful feeling clutching at her guts. She barely had eyes for the rocky beach, for the first time she'd ever seen or smelled a live adult mudcrab. She stood on the gravel and sand beside him, shallow three-toed footprints beside the heavy marks of his armored boots, and looked up into his face. He really didn't move much of anything in it. Maybe he had forgotten how. Maybe he'd been carrying this around for so long that he'd beaten it out of himself.

It was so seldom that he stuttered or paused or in any way hesitated in his speech that the wrong word stood out like a naked dancer at a Temple funeral.

“ You said he,” she said quietly, turning to face him fully, by his right shoulder looking up.

J'hazarr felt that he was falling to pieces inside. The grief, the confusion, the self-hatred; it was all pushing outward from inside his chest, a horrible aching pressure.

Would Two-Colors even believe him if he told his wild tale? It seemed like the worst excuse a man could concoct to try to prove his innocence.

_ You already decided you aren't innocent. Which is it, you fool?  _ He looked down at the big-eyed face looking up at him and closed his own eyes to blot her out. Two-Colors didn't seem afraid of him. She probably thought he had a very good explanation for what he had done. J'hazarr was loathe to tell her he did not, but at this point it had to be said.

“ I don't suppose you've ever heard of Vaermina's Skull of Corruption, have you?” His eyes fluttered open and returned to the sea beyond her head. It was easier to look away from her.

Two-Colors continued to watch him closely. Even knowing what he had done, watching him hurt made her chest feel tight and achy. She felt a strange and uncomfortable urge to put her hand on his arm, tail around his shin - things that she knew were dangerous and stupid.  _ It's been a weird few days. Maybe crazy is contagious. _

"No," she said. "But it's another daedric artifact like the bracers, right? Valuable, does something horrible?"

He nodded mutely, briefly closing his eyes again to steel himself. This wasn't a story J'hazarr had told any other living person before. It entailed admitting so many horrible things.

“ When I attended the Arcane University I met another student named Morga. She was an underclassman, but somehow so much more worldly than I... I was a cocky, power-hungry bastard and she was ten times worse. I know I loved her, although I don't remember feeling that at all. She belonged to the cult of Vaermina. She introduced me to the rest of them, vouched for me. I didn't think it was a very serious thing. Just a bunch of students trying to be contrarian, really. Then I spoke to the goddess myself, and she promised me power.

“ We, Morga and I, we rode out to a small village called Lambing Green. Vaermina instructed us to make potions that would cause the victim to slip into a coma. Vaermina comes to you in nightmares; she got her kicks torturing her victims until they died of fright. We dumped the poisons into the well. That's when I saw her. Olivia. I didn't know she had a name or a husband then.” J'hazarr's voice was changing gradually as he spoke; it grew hoarser, quieter. The lines of his face deepened. It was almost as if the story were aging him. Never did he look at Two-Colors, keeping a steady gaze on the sea.

“ The Skull of Corruption is a staff that can make an exact replica any mortal person right down to every pore, every scar. Even their clothes. That was Morga's reward for the deed. Mine, mine was the Orb of Vaermina. You could watch any person in Tamriel, any time, as much as you wanted. Doesn't sound very impressive, but in the wrong hands...

“ Morga wanted the Orb for herself and so she betrayed me. Him. My first real memory is one of incomprehensible rage. I saw his face,  _ my  _ face, and felt only fury and hatred. I had been birthed in a sewer without realizing what had happened. One second I was standing there with Morga in front of the shrine and the next – anyway. I attacked him with my knife. It was storming and cold. She, Morga, she silenced our magicka.” He reached up to trace the burns on his face with his fingers. “She did this. She was hoping we would kill each other, and if not she would kill the weakened survivor. It was so cold. My body was going numb, but I couldn't stop. He tried to crawl out of the water. I stabbed him in the back. He was bleeding out on the walkway...” J'hazarr paused, closing his eyes and drawing a shaky breath. He realized his story was jumbled and nonsensical. It didn't matter. He had to get through it. His hand clenched into a weak fist and J'hazarr continued with his eyes shut, speaking in a rasping whisper.

“ I slit his throat. And all at once the rage vanished and I realized what I'd done. The staff had taken over my mind. But I'd killed him, I'd murdered her brother. They were  _ my  _ hands, not his...

“ I was half dead, bleeding and burned, numb from the freezing water. Morga was on the other side of the channel. So I fled, into the dark, to hide. It seemed to go on for ages, the agony of my wounds. Then nothing, for a long time. I don't know why she didn't come for me. Did she see in the Orb, me lying in a dark corner of the sewer? Perhaps she thought I'd collapsed dead.”

J'hazarr felt pressure beneath his eyelids. When he opened them the sea was blurred, but no tears fell. He had ached for Shadazi most of all over these long years. It made no sense – her brother was pure scum. J'hazarr had deserved his end. But the murder of her brother was a sin that was uniquely his. He could not try to pin the blame of it onto any previous incarnation of himself.

Two-Colors squinted, finally looking down at his hands, away from his face. There was water in his eyes. She couldn't look at it. _ Weak, stupid infant, stop that. Be strong, or you will die. _

_ It hurts. It hurts to look at him. Why does it hurt? The day we met I would've been glad, or at least just thought he was crazier than I already did. _

In another person she might have assumed they were making up some fantastical story to excuse what they had done - “it wasn't me who poisoned them, it was the one who is dead.” First, she didn't think J'hazarr had that much imagination. Something had been preying on his mind all this time, and it wasn't hard to believe it was this. And second – he had never protested this to Rullus.  _ Don't chase me, don't throw your life away, _ never _ I didn't do it, I was created after it was done. _

Someone desperate to believe an insane lie would spread that insane lie as far as possible in hopes that other people believing it would make it true. It would be like the time La'ziri cut Solha's throat for her moon sugar and then invented that whole story about thinking it was an ash vampire in the dark, back when ash vampires were still a sane man's fear. Everybody knew why she'd done it because she was high off her whiskers for the next week, but she still told everyone who would listen. The only reason nobody peached on her to the guards was that they all knew Habasi was going to send her on some stupid mission that would get her killed... Of course.

There was something else that didn't ring right out of that whole thing, out of all the raw and dreadful words.

“ Her brother,” she said. “Whose brother, J'hazarr?”

“ Shadazi,” he said, lifting both shoulders and raising one arm in a tired shrug, as if that answered everything. “I went home after that. To J'hazarr's home. All of his memories were in my head, but there was something wrong about them...” He finally did turn to look down at Two-Colors, a hint of desperation in his black eyes.  _ Please understand me.  _ She was the only person he had ever told his horrible secret, that he was not-a-person. No mortal being that ever lived could possibly understand the confusion of not knowing what or who he really was.

“ It felt like waking up from a dream. You know how when you're dreaming, you do crazy things that don't make any sense, but they make sense to you at the time? That's what it felt like. I remembered Morga but I didn't love her. I remembered Shadazi, my sister, but I didn't love her either. My entire life was a series of inexplicable choices I had made without remembering the logic or the emotion that had motivated those choices... I couldn't stay there among those strangers who loved me, when I felt nothing for them but pity.”

Her head twitched up at the movement. She almost looked away again, quivering –  _ don't look at me bite him run  _ \- but in the end she did not. His eyes opened up in front of her, reflecting the distant glitter of the sea, a small universe flecked with stars of pain. It was not threat, not _ look-down-or-else.  _ He was trying to grab and hold her without ever touching her, wanted to touch someone just that badly. She had never seen that. Not directed at her.

“ Maybe you don't feel anything about that because it wasn't you,” she said. “Or maybe he didn't really feel anything himself. Some people can't. Did he even care about his sister? Did he really care about Morga, or did she just want the same things that he wanted?”

Her voice was breathless, barely audible.

“ I... I don't know,” J'hazarr said, slowly shaking his head and looking away again. “ _ I  _ feel things.” He clenched his fist briefly for emphasis. “Maybe not as strongly as other people do. I'm only guessing what he felt by the way he acted, the things he said. It's all irrelevant anyway – He's dead, so I'll never know for sure. Meanwhile I'm stuck with the shadow of a life he left me. I can pretend it wasn't really me, but the memories are still here, in my head and in my dreams.”

Two-Colors understood now that the clenched fist was also not an imminent threat; it wasn't the first time he'd done it. She tamped down that reflex, too. It wasn't so hard. She was preoccupied by a sick and growing sense of dread as she thought about what had happened and what was now likely to happen next.

“ Well, this is a problem,” she said. “There's no way in Oblivion the big meathead in the fancy armor will believe any of that if we tell him. I see why you don't want to kill him, but I don't know what we should do except keep running. I know my opinion doesn't mean anything, but – I think that even if you were a perfect copy of him, you're not the same mer who killed that town. That mer wouldn't have burned his clothes to keep me from freezing to death.”

J'hazarr looked sharply down at her when the words sunk in. _ ”We.”  _ He had nothing to survive on – no food, no clothes, no tools. But she was offering to stay with him. Two-Colors now knew what he had done but she wasn't scared off by it. She didn't hate him for it.

It was a completely unfamiliar emotion, that warm tightness in his chest. J'hazarr smiled feebly down at Two-Colors, an expression almost sadder than it was happy. His arm twitched up, thinking to pat her on the head before he realized how awkward and patronizing and stupid that would be. He dropped his hand.

She watched that hand, big-eyed, but in the end he didn't do anything. Just as well. In the armor it wouldn't have felt like another person. She wanted -

What did she want?

_ Later. Don't get all soft and weird when we're talking about staying alive. _

“ Thank you, Two-Colors,” he said instead, quietly. Then he glanced behind, up at the road. “Listen, kid. We gotta get off this road. There's no telling when he'll come stomping up, and I don't think there's a cross-road until Vivec. Have you ever used water-walk before?”

“ No,” she said. “I found a chameleon ring one time, I guess. Probably not the same kind of thing.” It had worked extremely well until one of the bigger kids followed her to where she slept and slapped her around and took it.

“ Well, now you can say you have,” J'hazarr said and held his palm out to brush against her arm. The soft glow of magicka was barely visible between their bodies, but Two-Colors felt it flow through her body and down to her feet, a faint sort of body-buzz that would weaken further as the spell ended. J'hazarr cast the spell on himself next and stepped toward the surf.

She twitched at the unfamiliar sensation, then shivered.  _ Oh, you could get used to this, you really could. No wonder he liked his potions so much. _ She started out beside him, watching the waves wash up and... under her feet. She almost stumbled as she was lifted slightly, stutter-stepping until she caught her balance. The water underfoot gave slightly, but not much, not very different from walking on the wet sand. It was easier as they got further out.

“ That is the weirdest thing I've ever felt,” she said. “You do this a lot?”

J'hazarr smiled softly. There were times when he took magic for granted, but it also afforded him several small joys that he never stopped being thankful for.

“ Yeah. I travel by foot a lot. If you're following a river it's usually a much easier and more direct route to just go on the water itself. And it makes fishing interesting.”

The water was shallow for a long stretch, but gradually the ocean did darken as the seabed dropped away from under their feet. Amorphous gray shadows undulated with the waves below them, like tentacles reaching up from the deep.

“ Water breathing is a far stranger –” he began to say. “Ha. Never mind. You probably wouldn't think so.”

Two-Colors actually laughed out loud.

“ No. Being on top of it is weird. Being under it - ” she stared downward. The water was surprisingly clear even this close to a city. She could see weeds swaying, fading into the black as they moved farther from shore, and the slow dim shape of the occasional silver fish. A slaughterfish as long as her leg followed them for a few yards, rolling a slick unblinking eye upward, but did not break the surface. “Actually that would probably be strange for me too, out here. I've mostly swum in... the city.”

“ Right. How much do you get paid for swimming in shit, anyway? You scoffed at a bounty of five-hundred...” J 'hazarr's tone was conversational but he felt lightheaded, his insides quivering. He'd just told Two-Colors his horrible secrets and she didn't bat an eye. And now they were chatting away like that hadn't even happened. J'hazarr glanced back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Rullus standing on the shore, but they were too far away now to see anything clearly.

“ Five hundred for work that can take your life? Pah,” she said. “For swimming up a shithole in a rich old idiot's house to fish under a mattress I got six. Partly that was because I killed Calvinus so it was only a two-way split. By accident,” she added. “I kicked him and the clumsy fucker hit his head. That's how I ended up... Well, where you found me.” She concluded somewhat sullenly, trying to batter down the old resentment and anger:  _ not fair, not fair! _

“ When I was little and couldn't climb so well I only got five percent on the split because I couldn't do the hardest part, I could only listen and tell the others when someone had gone out. More often it would be a hundred, two hundred than six. Not everybody keeps that much money in their house. But almost never would you be risking your life, not in a Hlaalu town. You might get thrown in a cell until you could get bailed out, and then you'd be kissing ass for months to make up for it.”

J'hazarr's brows furrowed as he listened.

_ Talos. No wonder thievery is so appealing. Then again, if you're buying food and maintaining equipment, that money wouldn't go very far at all... It must have been a tough life. _

The cantons of Vivec were looming over them and now they could see – and smell – the floating marketplace cluttering up the waterways between the cantons. It smelled chiefly of fish guts, spices and smoke. The canton themselves were a long way up, but from the canal J'hazarr could just make out a line of colorful awnings over the stalls in the bazaar. It was Redoran Canton they were closest to, apparently, according to the proliferation of flags bearing scarabs. Arching walkways criss-crossed over the canals, connecting each canton with its neighbor. Vivec City was the most populous city in Vvardenfell and a huge chunk of its economy was geared toward supporting the pilgrims that arrived daily by the hundreds, mostly from the mainland.

Several stairwells had been built into the sides of the cantons. They lead down to the docks where boats and house rafts had clustered around. Children chased one another across the bobbing rafts as easily as if they were on land, shrieking nonsensically. Meanwhile the adults went about grinding saltrice flour, hanging their clothes out to dry, and the other mundane chores that seemed absurd to J'hazarr when they took place on a floating city. Hardly anyone even seemed to care that a Khajiit and an Argonian were coming toward them walking atop the water.

Two-Colors looked up as a change in the wind brought her the distant chaos of smells, and then almost stopped dead to stare at the great city. No, at just one canton, she'd heard there were many more. She'd never seen anything like it. She moved on quickly, remembering that the spell wouldn't last forever. She had thought Balmora was a big city. It would probably fit inside one canton with the levels laid out side-by-side.

“ Xuth, it's so  _ big _ .”

“ Yeah.” J'hazarr stopped momentarily to look up at the canton, blinking at the sun shining over the top of a walkway. He'd been to Vivec Temple so many times that the sight of it stopped impressing him. It was mostly annoying trying to shoulder his way through crowds of xenophobic assholes. A fair number of the inns and eateries inside the cantons wouldn't even serve betmer.

“ I figured we'd double back now toward the coast. If that guy manages to get to Vivec he'll be here for days trying to find me. I hope, anyway. D'you need anything before we go? Fancy spending the last of your gold on an arena match?” J'hazarr fondly remembered the pastie and hot cakes he'd bought from a street vendor outside the Arena months before. He'd suffered diarrhea the entirety of the following day, but even so J'hazarr thought he wouldn't mind repeating the experience just then. He hoped Two-Colors did not hear the annoying gurgle from his belly.

“ I'd like to see that,” she said wistfully. “But we shouldn't spend the money. I'm hungry, do you want to split the eggs when we get back? I've got other stuff too, because I ate yours when we were in the cave.” She had not heard his stomach at all. She was thinking of hers. Maybe eating would make the feeling of unreality and creeping fear go away. Because whatever happened now, it was probably going to be awful, she could feel it. Running away all the time was no life.

_ Swimming in shit is no life, either. Is this really worse? _

_ No. No it is not. _

“ Sounds good. I'm glad now that we took those. Here, let me cast the spell again, I can feel it starting to wear off.” J'hazarr paused long enough to reach out to her. This time he pressed his palm to Two-Colors' arm less hesitantly, with less of a sense of crossing some boundary as he cast the spell first on her and then on himself.

This time Two-Colors was ready for it. Her tail tip flicked once, left-right, as the tingling wave of magicka washed over her, but that was all. 

“ Looks like you're the one saving my ass this time,” he said, grinning and trotting out back toward the coast. The sound of his boots on the water was a sharp clack. Her feet were inaudible next to his, soft pat-pat of proportionally broad feet distributing her weight as widely as possible. It was hard to resist the urge to stare back at Vivec, or down at the strange world beneath, rather than up ahead to watch for the armored Imperial. The sun glittered on the water's gently rippling surface and made it seem even more unreal. It was like an image behind glass, a fancy belt in a shop window.

“ Oh good,” she said dryly. “In another week we'll be even. I don't mind if you don't stab me in the face, though, if you were worried about that.”

“ Nah. I'm already ugly enough. It would be a shame to mar your scales,” J'hazarr said dryly. He had seen Argonians with discolored, warped or even missing scales before. Two-Colors was too young to be marked in that way. Hopefully, if she could get out of Morrowind to lead a brighter life in Cyrodiil, there'd be no danger of that ever happening.

J'hazarr suffered a pang of longing. Two-Colors didn't realize how lucky she was, having an entire lifetime laid out before her to do with as she wished. J'hazarr had this once himself, and it had been squandered with decisions that he could not reconcile as being entirely his own.

_ If I can help her succeed, at least I'll have done one constructive thing in my life, _ he thought, glancing aside once at her before turning his gaze back to scan the distant shore.

“ You're a sentimental old man,” Two-Colors said, looking at him in surprise. He'd basically called her an ugly idiot the second time they'd talked. Admittedly he'd be justified in being cranky after being called names, carrying her miles over his shoulder and then trading a valuable thing for the care of someone who had tried to kill him. She watched him curiously, but then had to check her footing at a small wavelet. “I'm nothing much to look at.”

He glanced at her in a way he hoped was covert, wondering what to say to that. He'd been an ugly teenager once, and the only Ohmes-raht that he knew of at the University. Some of the upperclassmen called him “rat tail.” He didn't want to bullshit her; she knew she was plain and trying to convince a plain person they were otherwise was just cruel.

“ If you say so. But with a voice like that, I bet you sing real pretty, don't you?”

Two-Colors blinked. “I – ah – I guess I've never really tried.” What a thing for him to notice! She hadn't thought about singing since she was very small.

The endless dark of the sea was fading to lighter shades of blue as they gradually approached the shore. The hairs on the nape of J'hazarr's neck stood up when he thought about meeting Rullus on the road again – but surely the big man couldn't run fast for any amount of time in that armor. J'hazarr's hand twitched toward his potion pouch but he stopped himself. _ No. You've only got two left to last you Talos knows how long. Don't waste them. _

“ Does it hurt, when you run out of power?” She asked, noticing the movement of his hand. 

“ Ah, no,” he said sheepishly, quickly withdrawing his hand to rub his fingers along his chin. “It's more of an annoyance. I'm just nervous about that guy, Rullus, catching up after I spent some of my magicka on those water-walk spells. A mage without power is a wolf without teeth, y'know. But I suppose I can outrun him in any case.”

Two-Colors slowed as they approached the shore, turning slightly to let the wavelets carry her from water to land. She felt slightly relieved to be back on the sand again. Walking on water had been strange and new, but you could only have so much strange and new at one time.

J'hazarr smiled at her riding the wavelet – if she thought that was fun, she ought to experience riding a big wave, out in the ocean. Maybe he could show her, some time when they weren't busy scraping up gold to survive on.

_ That time isn't going to come. You're putting her on a boat first chance you get, remember, “old man”? _

It was extra work for his legs trudging through the loose sand and then up the grassy slope to the road. The vegetation was quite sparse here, just a few small shrubs and hardly any trees. A huge emperor parasol offered a bit of shade from what was turning out to be quite a warm afternoon, and J'hazarr stopped under it briefly on the roadside. 

“ Now, about those eggs. Let's eat and walk,” J'hazarr said, tapping his fingers against the steel over his belly.

“ Good idea,” she said, shrugging the knapsack off one shoulder to pull it around to the front, where she could pull out the jar of eggs. She put the knapsack back on as she tugged the lid off to offer him one.

 

* * *

Rullus followed their footprints in the dust as best he could. It was a well-trafficked road, but the long deep strides of an armored mer were enough of an impression to be distinct. There was a point where they veered off into the brush. He walked back and forth around the point of disappearance a few times, double-checking that they hadn't re-entered the road further up or doubled back to try to return to Ebonheart, but there was no sign of it. Finally he shrugged and turned to push his way through the bushes and small trees toward the beach. J'hazarr, at least, had been paying no attention to stealth on his way through, breaking twigs, stamping in damp soil; the Argonian hadn't either, but she was lighter, only an occasional three-toed print here and here. They'd slowed to a walk. Rullus drew his sword slowly as he moved forward, just in case, but he suspected they were more interested in getting away than setting an ambush.

_ Two-Colors, are you there? Run. _

J’hazarr had never really thought she would leave him, even though he also thought she would have heard all of it. Rullus was not sure how to feel about that. Had he told her some false explanation in advance, or was she as bad as J'hazarr? Was she dependent on him to the point that she would not believe he could commit such an act? It would be useful to know if she was likely to attack him, and if so, what he should do. He tried to imagine himself smashing the small body aside with his shield and winced. He had fought cultists that were Bosmer women, that were tiny and fragile. He had not had this problem then.  _ They were a small species. They were adults. I'm not perfectly sure from her voice that this one is. _

He would have to deal with it as it came. She did not exude the prickly aura of magicka that J'hazarr did up close, so she probably couldn't do much to him in his armor.

They'd stood on the beach for some minutes, talking possibly. And then... Then there were no more prints. Rullus turned back up the beach a couple of times to try and find them. He went back and looked over the water. There was nothing out there. Even if the Argonian could swim to Vivec, which was not unreasonable, he doubted J'hazarr could.

_ J'hazarr, who is a master Alterationist. Rullus Ennius, you idiot. _

He stared intently into the water, but could not see them lurking below the surface. The weeds could easily hide them. He was ready to swear J'hazarr's power had died before he ran, but he could've been carrying potions. Probably he had been. Perhaps he was just hiking straight across the bottom.

_In that case, what do I do?_ They could have gone to Vivec City. They could have doubled back to Ebonheart. They could have headed off into the wilderness from the shore somewhere up ahead. Which was more likely? He stood on the beach for some time, unmoving, trying to decide what to do. 

Of those, he thought Vivec. It was not a place as friendly to betmer as Balmora or even Ald'ruhn, but it was a tremendously useful place to become lost in a vast crowd. He turned back toward the road, lifting his shoulders in a sigh. He had been so very close, and now it might be weeks or months before he caught them up again! In the time it would take him to walk to Vivec they could vanish, create a winding trail through the cantons and take ship for the mainland or some other part of Vvardenfell, pay another guild guide to send them virtually anywhere. He had never been to the great city floating above the Inner Sea, and he would be a stranger there. Mouths would seal against him that would open readily to gold or a polite question in other towns.

_ There is always time. _

_ But I am tired. What I said to J'hazarr was true. _

He was surprised at himself. Now, after such a long pursuit, with his quarry in sight? What about Olivia, their child?

_ You can't even pretend to yourself that Olivia would want this betmer dead as badly as you have. She was not a vengeful woman. She would instead ask why you have never tried to help the other survivors. _

He realized he had been keeping that thought at bay for a long time now. Nerilia's exhausted, grieving face occurred to his mind more and more. Fourteen years wasn't very long in the life of an Altmer. Had she joined the Cult, taken up the sword to defend the innocent, studied magic and buried herself in a safe academic life far from violence? Descended into misery and was now huddled at some back table of some loathsome tavern, thinking about her next drink? Faded away and died of a wasting illness as elves sometimes did when they were unable to endure?

_ After! After I have dealt with J'hazarr I will go and find out _ , he told himself sternly, and turned back toward the road. He saw a familiar figure in the distance, walking along with feet kicking at the hem of his blue skirts below his leather cuirass. Rullus stopped at the side of the track and waited. Adrian noticed him and walked faster to catch up after a moment. He was flushed and breathing hard from the walk; he must have exerted himself significantly to come so far so fast. His breathing sounded harsh, wheezy, and Rullus realized again that he had never noticed that before.

“ There you are,” Adrian said. “I half thought I'd missed you in Ebonheart.”

“ No, you didn't miss me,” Rullus said quietly. “Are you sure you're not ill?”

“ Not at all, old fellow, it's the dust. One gets unaccustomed to it. You sound all in. What's happened?” The Breton's blue eyes searched his face as he frowned up at Rullus, one hand wandering to his rapier's hilt. “Did you meet him?”

“ I did,” Rullus said. “We fought briefly. I marked him, but not in a way that will threaten his life. Then he and the girl fled across the water. I'm not sure if they've gone to Vivec or doubled back somewhere.”

“ I'd go to Vivec if I was them,” Adrian said.

“ Yes,” Rullus said. “Do you have all your things?”

“ Yes, you needn't worry. Vivec City it is, then. Cheer up. There are myriad shrines to daedra scattered around the city, they say. We'll be able to find work easily enough.”

“ There's always work,” Rullus agreed slowly, turning his steps to move up the road beside the Breton. He went slowly, not only out of his own inclination but also to let Adrian catch his breath.

“ So what about this girl, then?” Adrian asked after a while.

“ I'm not sure. I don't want to harm her if we can avoid it.”

“ But she's with him willingly, not a purchase,” Adrian said.

“ J'hazarr would never buy a slave,” Rullus said.

“ You said you thought him incapable of nothing,” Adrian said gently.

“ I think him capable of every violence or deceit. I think that he is unashamed of his birth and would not wish to support the system of racial slavery here unless it provided him some significant advantage. In this case it would not. She's too small to carry burdens for him, and I doubt seriously he would've bought her for sexual purposes. From what we've seen he is not a mer governed by the flesh.” He said these things without hesitation. He did not need to pretend J'hazarr's evils were simple and all-encompassing. That wasn't how real people worked.

“ Mm.” Adrian was silent for a few moments. Eventually he said, “There were a couple of Dunmer not so far behind me. I expect they'll catch us up ere long. The man has a glass blade and shield. Saw him earlier in Ebonheart.”

“ You think this is significant?”

“ Eh, probably not. Just thought I'd mention it.”

 

* * *

Favise  Tharam  and Ulien  Zaelinaat had arrived in Ebonheart the day prior, giving them time to meet one another and to speak to a number of beggars who hung around the missions and the wharves – to set up a network of spies, as it were. The homeless of Morrowind were ever eager to report what they had seen for a few septims. This is how they learned that a Khajiit matching J’hazarr’s description had left the city on foot, heading North, accompanied by a small Argonian. They set out at once to follow him, and soon discovered fresh blood and scuff marks in the road. There had been a fight.

Presently they spotted a man dressed in a motley of ebony and orcish armor walking ahead of them on the road toward Vivec, accompanied by a slender Breton in a boiled leather cuirass. A pair of sellswords, perhaps; had they attacked J’hazarr? Favise immediately slowed to a pace that would allow her to eventually overtake them without arousing suspicion, bending forward under the weight of her medicine-seller’s pack. 

“ Blessings of ALMSIVI, Serjos,” she huffed from behind. She directed her next words mostly at the man in heavy armor. “My, but I haven't seen armor so grand in many years! Off to the Vivec Arena to test your mettle, I suppose?” Ulien murmured three blessings and stayed behind her shoulder, as if he were a hired bodyguard. He had been one often enough.

“ Afternoon, Sera,” Rullus said, politely slowing to let them draw even. He did not usually repeat the religious blessings of a different faith from his own, but there was no reason not to use a local salutation when they were speaking Dunmeris anyway. He surveyed the woman's outfit and burden curiously. Some traveling alchemist? She certainly had a well-equipped hired man if that was the case. Rullus' professional eye noted his movements, the easier because his helmet was still back on its thong.

“ We are bound for Vivec, but not for the arena. I'm looking for an acquaintance of mine from many years ago, and I believe he may be there,” the phrases he usually used rolled easily from his tongue. “My name is Rullus Ennius, and this is my friend Adrian de Faelencourt.”

Adrian inclined his head politely. He and the fellow with the glass shield were eyeing each other up in a polite but very intent way, each looking over the other's equipage. Rullus mentally shook his head.  _ You wouldn't last five minutes, Adrian. Look at the way he walks. _

Favise’s eyes swept casually over Rullus in search of clues. Dirt was ground into his poleyns; he’d recently been on his knees.    


“ Volmyni Llando, apothecary, and this is my nephew from the Mainland, Ruram. He's come to complete the pilgrimages, and I'm accompanying since my work takes me all over to begin with. Too bad you aren't arena fighters, because I was hoping I might sell you a potion or two to aid you in combat...” She grinned affably at them. “Vivec is a wonderful city, but terribly confusing for outlanders, I'm afraid. I don't mind recommending you a good inn, if you know which canton you might be staying at?”

_ Don't press too hard. Don't ask about the friend. Let him tell you himself. _

“ I expect we will stay in the Foreign Quarter,” Rullus said. “As you say, an outlander is easily confused.” He had no idea where J'hazarr would actually be, so they might as well base themselves where anyone with information would expect an Imperial and a Breton to be found. Perhaps the woman would remember them. It was unlikely, with all Vivec's millions, but you never knew. “My friend is an Ohmes-raht Khajiit, very well armored and equipped – in fact, he dropped his things where we last talked, and I'm hoping to give them back to him.” He hefted the extra pack demonstratively. “I'm not sure where he would be most comfortable in a place like Vivec, honestly.”

_ I'm sure you were simply “talking” when he dropped his bags, Serjo Rullus Enniu _ s, Favise thought. This was quite a confusing situation. It might be worth tagging after this man; he seemed to know J'hazarr or at least had a reason for wanting him dead. The thought did occur to her that he might be Mythic Dawn as well, but if her masters had wished her to collaborate with others, they would have mentioned it in their note.

No, as enticing as this lead may be, there was not the time to follow up on it now. She needed to get to Vivec straight away, but if she could not find J'hazarr herself, she could perhaps follow up with the Cyrodiilic men later.

“ I should think that a Khajiit would not wish to leave the safety of the Foreign Quarter, Serjo. I am not that way often, but I do recall the Three Lanterns provides tidy lodgings and good flin,” she said after a thoughtful pause.

“ We take that suggestion very kindly, Sera,” Rullus said. “Thank you. The Three Lanterns.”

“ Oh yes, quite,” said Adrian. “Are you selling any cures, Madam?”

“ Several,” Favise replied. Her tone was friendly despite her irritation for this delay – still, anything she knew about these people might help her. “What is it that ails you, Serjo?”

“ Oh, nothing at the moment,” he said, aware of Rullus' eyes on him. “But I do catch the odd lung infection awfully easily. Anything you've got for a cough.”

Favise nodded.

“ I've got potions that will stave off infection when taken as part of a daily regimen, and others which suppress coughs.” Those potions were of the snake-oil variety; a potion with quality ingredients and obvious effect was a potion the average commoner could not afford. She did carry real potions as well, the type she sold to her more wealthy clientele back in Sadrith Mora, but those were intended for Favise's own use. “The first are twenty gold apiece and you're advised to take an eighth with your breakfast daily. The second are ten and should be taken all at once the moment a cough sets in.”

“ I'll have one of the second sort, thanks.” Adrian fished out ten gold from his belt pouch and paid up. His purse looked full, the leather stamped with a vine pattern that was new enough to still be clear and visible.

“ Ruram” watched with sudden impassivity, silently incredulous that even an outlander thought a potion that would actually work could be bought for ten gold. Surely that wasn't the case in Cyrodiil or High Rock or wherever the man had come from either.

“ Don't let us keep you for the sake of being polite, Sera,” Rullus said. “I could see you and your nephew were in a hurry, and I'm a little slow in my armor.”

Favise chuckled and waved her hand at the Imperial.

“ Being polite earned me a sale, young man. But it's true, we were hoping to reach the Lake Amaya shrine before nightfall... Come along, Ruram. You two have a blessed day and good luck finding your friend.” With a nod to the swordsman, Favise bent forward under the weight of her pack and surged past them. As soon as they were out of sight of the pair they would be able to go even faster.

“ You know that is probably made from one part water, one part boiled ditch weeds and two parts Dunmer piss,” Rullus said to Adrian, when he judged the two fast-moving mer were out of sight.

“ For ten septims, almost certainly,” Adrian agreed, and tossed the bottle into the ditch. It sloshed when it hit.

“ Then why waste the money?”

“ I was curious if she actually had a pitch,” Adrian said. “But that was all very fluent. She's at least sold potions before, and for a while.”

“ Why wouldn't she have?” Rullus asked, lifting a black eyebrow.

“ I tell you, that glass weighs heavily on my mind, old man.”

“ She said he was her nephew,” Rullus said.

“ I don't buy it. They look nothing at all alike.”

Rullus laughed. “Well, maybe they're just con artists.”

“ Mm. Maybe. I saw him speaking at length with a man who seemed to be homeless, but I suppose that means nothing in and of itself.”

“ Well, if we see them again in Vivec I will take it to be more than a coincidence, I suppose,” Rullus said.

“ Indeed.”


	13. Chapter 13

#  Chapter Thirteen

 

As they walked Ulien became aware that off in the distance, beyond the haze of dust, there were a couple of people at the side of the road. Even dirty, steel plate gleamed far off. He stared, then said,

“ Sera, is that them?” He did not reach for the sword yet, waiting for confirmation; it was hers to give the order.

The figures standing beneath the parasol seemed to have appeared out of nowhere until Favise realized they must have come up the slope from the beach.

“ It could be, but I can't tell what race – never mind. I see his tail. That is definitely a Khajiit. They fit the description, so we will kill them and try to verify the identities later. The Khajiit is the primary target; I will try to disable the Argonian quickly and then help you with him. Draw your weapon when I drop my bag.” Favise took a drink from the waterskin dangling from her bag as she moved at the same steady pace. There was no point in prematurely announcing themselves as assassins by breaking into a sprint.

 

* * *

His heart nearly leapt from his chest when J’hazarr saw figures on the road to the South, but he quickly realized that it wasn't Rullus. Two Colors’ stomach flipflopped as she turned to follow his gaze, then sighed. It was only a couple of Dunmer. The daylight glittered on a glass shield, the first time she'd ever seen one in person.

J'hazarr dipped his fingers into the jar without taking off the gauntlets and popped an egg into his mouth. The two Dunmer were close enough now that he could at least tell that one was a man and the other a woman. J'hazarr didn't particularly feel like exchanging pleasantries so he resumed walking as he chewed, helm still tucked under his arm. Two-Colors was already on her second egg, bolting them down faster than was probably polite as she realized how hungry she was. She moved up on J'hazarr's right as he walked, wanting to keep him between her and anybody passing on the left. She did not question that impulse. It had been that kind of day. Hopefully the Dunmer would just pass on without stopping for namecalling or attempted evangelism. Some of the pilgrims could be really obnoxious.

The clinking of a heavy bag came slowly closer, and just before J’hazarr thought the other travelers would pass them he heard the thump of that same bag hitting the ground.

He turned to see what had happened. Before he could process what he was seeing a crackling ball of magicka, white at its core and limned with blue mist, hurtled past him toward Two-Colors. He felt the ice-cold wind of the frost spell against his face even from a foot away.

Two-Colors twitched around, swallowing hard, and was looking into the blinding white flare of an approaching spell. She threw herself flat into the ditch without the slightest thought, with nothing at all in her head until she hit the ground. It sped overhead and impacted on the trunk of one of the big mushrooms with a loud pouf and tinkle, like snowy icicles falling. Two-Colors hissed a series of colorful oaths in Jel as she kipped back onto her feet, hand sweeping down for the poisoned blade.

Ulien drew the glass blade in one smooth movement as he watched the bag start to fall, and by the time Favise had finished casting he was past her and making a low stab at the Khajiit's left thigh. Glass could cut through steel, but it could also get stuck; he did not commit enough of his weight that he would be pulled down if the Khajiit suddenly jerked back with the blade embedded. He had killed mer with that stroke alone, stabbed them in the femoral and watched them pull free only to bleed out, faces horrified with the realization as they died. He didn't expect this to be that easy, but it was always a pleasurable memory.

Pink light shimmered across J'hazarr's armor as he thunked the incoming blade aside with his left arm. He dropped his helm in the process – he could not draw his weapon and put that on at the same time so the choice had to be made. The glass hit his arm with a loud clack and went on to glance off his cuisses, but he felt the painful impact on arm and thigh alike.

That had been wrong spell to cast, J'hazarr realized belatedly; spell absorption instead of shield because he'd expected to be fighting a mage.

J'hazarr did not have time to look for Two-Colors as he stepped rapidly backward, pulling the morning star up from his belt in his right hand. He held his left arm up to defend against another strike. At least he knew from her curses that she hadn’t been killed.

Ulien recalculated coolly as he withdrew, rotating his wrist to whirl the blade in a circle. He couldn't read the magicka that had been used, but it hadn't stopped his blade from making contact with the armor. Well, no reason to particularly worry. As long as he kept the shield correctly in play there wasn't a damn thing a steel mace could do to him. 

J'hazarr's lips were pressed tightly shut around his clenched teeth as he watched the swordsman circle around, moving away from the women, shield still held up at the guard. J'hazarr had no choice but to take the offensive. He had not enough magicka to assist in anything else, and there was no way to take one of his potions now.

J’hazarr parried a jab at his face when it came, catching the blade with a spike of his mace and shoving it aside with a grunt. The Dunmer’s face was calm, even a little amused, and he followed up immediately with an attempt to slam the shield into the betmer's unprotected face. J'hazarr had stains of blood from an earlier injury matting his hair, and he stank of blood and sweat this close. Betmer were filthy enough when they were fully furred and scaled, in Ulien’s opinion; this disgusting half-mer appearance was frankly repulsive in every way. He looked forward to watching his life ebb into the dust.

J'hazarr raised his left arm to block, but the shield just bashed his own forearm into his head instead. Much of the force was dulled but it forced him to stagger backward a step while swinging the morning star in an underhand arc toward the swordsman's side. He didn't lower his arm from over his head.

Ulien faded to the left away from the morning star easily, now grinning in anticipation.  _ Slow, slow. _ He flicked the sword around into an overhand grip, quick as lightning, and attempted to stab it right through J'hazarr's bracer and pin his arm to his chest. He could get it out again easily enough while the betmer was screaming and writhing.

J'hazarr jerked his arm down to block the stab he thought intended for his chest. It created a horrible metallic scrape as glass penetrated his bracer like cheap tin before sinking into his arm. J'hazarr screamed, a ragged and throaty sound that turned into a furious bellow at its height. He jerked his arm aside as the glass blade burst from the other end, metal screeching as it was parted, tip scraping against his pauldron. J'hazarr shoved himself toward the swordsman, pushing himself onto the blade. He could feel glass scraping against bone with the movement that widened the wound, hot blood seeping out to run along the edge of the blade.

Face contorted in an agonized snarl and blunt teeth bared, J'hazarr raked at the mer's buckler with the butt of his morning star and lunged forward, snapping his teeth as he tried to bite the man’s face. He threw all of his weight at the swordsman in an attempt to knock him down.

Ulien saw his stroke hit and thought he had achieved his aim for a second – until the betmer used the force of the stroke to close with him, something completely unexpected as his foe literally impaled himself further to get at the Dunmer's face. Sharp teeth closed around his nose before he realized what was happening, half-severing it, and a high, nasal scream burst from his throat  as he was knocked off his feet. He hit the ground under the full weight of a Khajiit in steel armor, shield smashed down onto his chest, and felt ribs break under the impact.

The taste of blood flooded J'hazarr's mouth. He growled savagely and released the Dunmer's face only so that he could rear back and try to batter his weapon against the shoulder of the other man's sword arm. Blood flowed more freely from his wounds after the impact of hitting the ground jostled the sword inside of him. He would bleed out quickly if it were pulled free. He  _ had  _ to get the mer to release his sword before J'hazarr could run, and he  _ had  _ to put enough distance between himself and the swordsman that he could drink a magicka potion without being interrupted. There was no other way. But he couldn't even reach the Dunmer's fingers to physically pry them off the hilt.

Ulien snarled in agony, barely restraining another high-pitched scream, as the points of the morning star found holes in his mail and smashed into his padding and flesh. The Khajiit was strong, stronger than he had expected, and now he was blinded by his own blood running back into his eyes.  _ Get him off, get him off before he bites my throat out!  _ He twisted his hip, trying to shift the Khajiit's greater weight that way. He could not keep his hand tightened on the hilt through the throbbing agony in his shoulder. His fingers lost their grip.

J'hazarr was rolled off and onto his back, grunting when the hilt of the sword banged the ground. He felt that impact intimately through every inch of flesh stuck by the sword. But the blade was trapped between steel at both ends and it would not slip free of him unless pulled. He rolled over and pushed himself up with both fists, one clenched around the hilt of his mace, and staggered away from the fallen swordsman. It hurt, oh  _ fuck Talos _ the pain in his arm was unbearable, and J'hazarr had no idea that he was running South along the road. It was away from the fight, that was all he needed to know. After running several yards he flung his own mace down the slope toward the beach so the swordsman couldn't have it, grasped the crossguard firmly with his right hand, and yanked.

J'hazarr screamed, a high pitched yowl that would be heard up and down the road for half a mile. Blood splurted out after the blade, which J'hazarr let clatter to the ground.  _ Two-Colors, Two-Colors, is she alive? _ His thoughts were scrambled, confused, as he jogged forward, tail swinging wildly –  _ away, have to get away _ from the swordsman who would be gaining his feet and running after J'hazarr any second. His fingers felt numb and sluggish as they reached into the pouch on his belt.

 

* * *

Favise only moved close enough to the edge of the road to verify that the Argonian was not going to run. She brought her attention to one of the rings hidden beneath her gloves, a gift from the Mythic Dawn. Heat pulsed from the ring and the air above her left hand wavered as a ruby mist coalesced into the form of a buckler. Its shape was vaguely that of a six-point shuriken, the points curved like demon fangs. Ruby eyes scowled above every pair, their pulsating glow bright against the ebon-black metal in which they were set. A thick, upward curving spike rose from the center in place of a boss and the entire shield was veined with red, like the face of a Dremora. Favise thought the shield shamefully tasteless, but it was convenient, and most who saw it would not live to remember.

Two-Colors turned to bound up out of the ditch out of the Dunmer woman's reach, watching from the corner of her eye as she summoned a shield.  _ Daedric. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Who the hells ARE these people!? _

She wanted to ask if he knew, but J'hazarr was obviously busy, and she needed to pay close attention to the mage. The wrong spell only had to hit once. She hadn't seen her cast anything that looked like a poison resist, but getting a hit in around that buckler... _ You have to get close and you're probably gonna take a hit. Just hope it's not something that can kill you instantly. _

Her decision made, she skidded on the dusty road as she pivoted back toward the Dunmer, tail flying out to one side to keep her balance.

Favise noted the sheen of magicka on the Argonian's blade and called her own with the second ring. She felt the intense heat of it through her gloves as the red mist pressed the shape of a hilt into her palm. When the light had faded she was holding a barbed dagger of gleaming black metal inscribed with glowing Daedric runes along the fuller. She could feel the knobby protrusions on the grip, red glass set in the metal hilt like bubbles that pulsed with warmth.

Her disintegrate spells worked only at close range. The Argonian would have to be lured in. She immediately dropped into an offensive stance, buckler extended and dagger held close to her chest, face set in her usual passive frown.

Two-Colors took a couple of swift steps toward the Dunmer, then threw her head forward and down, letting her momentum carry her over in a front tuck. As she flew past tail-over-head she slashed with her poisoned blade at the arm that held the shield, hoping to make her lose her grip and her summon.

Favise moved to parry with her buckler but the blade hit the very edge of one of the shield's fangs and sliced at a side-angle through fabric and the flesh of her arm, leaving a shallow cut. Intense heat and agony exploded from the wound. A throaty whine escaped Favise as she turned to follow the Argonian's movement. She thrust forward her weapon hand, spiral of red magicka flowing down the blade toward the Argonian as she came up from her roll. The dulling of the blade's edge was not visible to the naked eye, but small cracks spidered across the steel edge as magicka sunk in.

The agony was mind-seizing. Favise triggered her healing ring on impulse, wasting charge on a minor cut without even healing the poison. She was panting harshly through gritted teeth, beads of sweat forming on her brow.  _ Pain is temporary. Dagon's glory is eternal. You will focus! _

_ Hit, hit!  _ Two-Colors hadn't made much of an impact. The woman was still on her feet and she'd cast some kind of spell, what had it been? Two-Colors felt a second's panic as she waited to feel fire bloom in her chest, ice explode from her eyes, but nothing seemed to happen. As her feet hit the ground she ducked low and sliced at the Dunmer's ankle with a vicious down-and-backhand, letting the momentum add to her stroke. Once cut that tendon and it would be much easier.

Favise felt the poison magicka sink into her flesh when the dulled blade hit, a second stab of white-hot pain, but it didn't even cut the fabric of her pants. She slashed downward toward the top of the Argonian's head while jerking her knee up to kick the Argonian back. Her impulse was to heal herself again immediately, but that wouldn't stop the pain, and Favise knew it was better to wait for the poison to end before healing its damage.

Two-Colors felt the wind of the blade's passing and felt it skim scales from her skull as she leaned away, and then a knee hit her in the chest and she was knocked back, air forced from her lungs. She rolled over with her head tucked, earth and sky flashing around her, until she could find enough purchase to get her feet under her and her tail curled for balance. She wheezed as she leaned on one fist, the dagger out at her side.

_ It didn't cut, why didn't it cut!? _ It must have been the spell she'd cast! Two-Colors hurriedly sheathed the dagger and palmed the shockbite weapon instead as she forced herself onto her feet.

Favise's eyes flicked aside and she saw blood streaming from Ulien’s face. Both he and the Khajiit had been screaming. She didn't look long enough to get a full assessment of whatever was happening over there, but it was nothing good. The pain or the poison or both were making her dizzy, but she could already feel it beginning to fade.

_ Do I spend the last of my magicka killing this girl and hope I can kill an armored Khajiit with just a dagger? No.  _ She would have to go steel-to-steel against the Argonian until one of them was dead. She ran after the Argonian and stabbed underhand beneath her buckler, which she held out in front of her chest, a position from which she hoped to quickly defend against another strike.

Two-Colors leaned aside from the half-blind strike, wary of the sharp-edged buckler in the Dunmer's other hand, and then dropped to one knee, slashing the woman's inner thigh. 

Power crackled from the electrified blade and across the Dunmer’s body. Favise screamed raggedly and smashed the buckler down in a blind sweep toward the Argonian. A point of the daedric shield tore down the left sleeve of her leather armor as if it was paper, gouging scale and drawing blood in a long spurting line of pain. Two-Colors hissed as she scrambled gracelessly back and away.

With every muscle in her body thrown into spasm Favise didn't trust herself to try to move backward so she let herself fall instead, sha king her twitching fingers free of the shield to end the summon and prevent it from cutting her when she rolled away from the Argonian. It collapsed into a cloud of red mist as she came up on her back, ready to kick to defend herself if she had to. It had been a weak shock spell and already Favise knew she had control of most of her motor skills. The magicka of her healing ring coursed through her again. It was slower, not the automatic heal of a strong potion, but the pain of poison and shock alike were rapidly fading as the muscle tremors stopped .

_ The Dunmer’s on the ground. Kill her now, while you can! _

But then Two-Colors heard J'hazarr scream again. Her head snapped around and found him far off down the road already, bloody glass blade left behind as he ran slowly away. He must be deranged from pain and blood loss, maybe not even sure where he was going. She hurtled to her feet and sprinted after him, teeth gritted against the pain of cold air hitting her wounded arm. It wasn't bleeding that hard. It would wait.

J'hazarr's fingers met with bits of broken glass when he opened his potion bag. He stupidly pushed his fingers deeper into the pouch, feeling the glass crunch and tinkle as it shifted, wondering where his potions were.  _ They broke. They all broke when that bastard rolled me over. I'm going to die.  _ There were footsteps from behind. J'hazarr whirled around, throwing up a puff of dust where his boot pivoted on the road, and saw Two-Colors running toward him.

Favise scrambled up when she realized the Argonian wasn't coming at her again. One quick glance told her the swordsman would be useless for several more seconds at least.  Ulien lay on his back, his now-empty hand scrabbling at his eyes with the padded palm of his gauntlet to try and clear his vision, as he choked from the blood flooding his sinus. His entire face was a mess from his half-destroyed nose.  She had only enough magicka left for one more ranged attack. Favise dropped the dagger, letting it dissolve into mist as she sprinted after the Argonian. She thrust out one hand with her fingers splayed, but at the last second twitched her arm aside to aim at the Khajiit instead. The one who  _ must  _ die.

The blast of white-blue magicka roared past Two-Colors, inches above and to the left of her shoulder, ice forming on the naked scales of her face as it passed. J'hazarr didn't have time to even think about moving. His head had grown fuzzy. Darkness was eating away at the edge of his vision. The impact of the frost spell was a dazzling explosion of blue and white sparks on his cuirass, a cold blast of wind that yanked at his bangs, ice crystals forming and melting on his eyelashes and side-whiskers in a second. J'hazarr grinned when he felt the invisible layer of magicka that was his absorption spell drinking it in. A rush of magicka tingled across his body, sinking in deep, becoming part of him.

Two-Colors could still scent his blood, too much, he was still bleeding from his arm and she could see it pulsing out onto the ground.  _ Oh gods, the artery. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Why doesn't he take a potion? _

She jerked to a halt as the spell flew past her shoulder, but it hadn't even been aimed at her. How could one body survive all of that, take in that much abuse and keep going? He would die in front of her eyes – why was he smiling?

Ulien at last managed to get the blood out of his eyes and spit it out of his windpipe enough to scramble up onto his feet. His shield was still on his arm. His sword! Where was his sword? The damned Khajiit had run away with it stuck in his arm, curse him! He spat blood into the dirt and spun to run after Favise, to pass her as fast as he could, fury pounding through his body and erasing pain as he shouted,

“ _ My life for the Destroyer!” _

“ No, you fool!” Favise screamed as he passed her. J'hazarr broke into a drunken run to meet the Dunmer, clumsily pushing Two-Colors out of the way. His reaching hand was aglow with the soft lavender light of his health absorb. He felt his fingers brush the mer's outstretched arm and magicka poured from J'hazarr like a final exhalation.

Then the glass buckler slammed into his head. There was intense pain in his skull and a clatter as the shield slipped downward and hit his pauldron. J'hazarr knew nothing and saw nothing as he dropped to the ground, but the flesh of his arm squirmed as the wounds pulled shut.

Ulien was arrogant, but he was not completely inexperienced. He was well able to recognize the sensation of life being sucked from his body. He let momentum carry him away, but he had lost something. His limbs felt heavy, weaker as he turned about, bloody teeth bared. He raised a steel boot for a kick. 

Two-Colors dove and rolled and came up next to his foot, kicking sideways at it with all of her strength. She was not strong, but on the other hand, no one can stand without the use of their legs. Ulien grunted in surprise as his feet flew out from under him. She had to roll rapidly away to avoid being smacked with the shield herself, his reflexes surprising fast in that instant after he hit the ground.

J'hazarr groaned on the ground, head rolling to the side. The spell couldn't cure his blood loss, but he now only felt a dull ache in his arm. The hot flood of blood had stopped. He still felt a throbbing pain in his skull and a disorienting spinning sensation that was gradually slowing.

_ Get up, get up! The mage is still alive!  _ He rolled over, but his arms trembled when he tried to support himself and J'hazarr collapsed onto his chest. He let himself rest, just for a moment, panting with his forehead against the road.

Favise broke into a sprint, holding her hand to the side as the heat and magicka gathered into her palm once again, solidifying in the form of her daedric dagger. The Khajiit was down and struggling to stand. One well-aimed stab to his throat could finally end this.

Ulien struggled to get to his knees so that he could, at the very least, beat the Khajiit's head in or throw his shield at the Argonian. It was at that point that, lacking the time to aim for the soft spot at the base of his skull, Two-Colors smacked him in the head with her dagger hilt and he dropped like a rock, twitching faintly at the current coursing over his skull. She turned for the other one, teeth bared in defiance skating on top of churning terror.  _ Get up, get up! _

“ No,” she snarled, and snatched the shield from the fallen Dunmer's arm and threw it as hard as she could at the mage's chest.

Favise threw her arm out to block but the shield hit her wrist far before her own shield had a chance to form. She stumbled sideways and drew her hand up to her chest, wincing at the pain of being smacked on the bone with heavy glass.

“ So you'll die first?” Favise hissed, shaking off the cloud of mist coalescing around her hand and dropping to one knee to pick up the glass shield instead.

J'hazarr heard Two-Colors' voice and then the woman's. He had to get up. He grunted and pushed himself off the ground, rolling over onto his ass and raising his hand as if to release another spell. The Dunmer jerked herself to the right and threw herself down in a roll to evade the feint. He had not a drop of magicka left in his body.

“ Two-Colors, run,” J'hazarr rasped. He was already climbing up to his own feet, groaning and pushing his gauntleted hands against his knee to stand, tail stretched out long behind himself for balance. He felt he would topple at any moment.  _ My weapon, where did it go?  _ It was gone, flung into the ditch at the side of the road. J'hazarr reached down to scoop up the glass sword, and again to snag his helm from the ground as he tottered past the unconscious body of the swordsman.

Two-Colors hesitated, stutter-stepping backward, and then turned to run when she was sure J'hazarr was coming too. He didn't look well or smell right, something off, something weak.  _ His potions must be gone. When we're out of reach I'll give him mine. _

_ I've only got the one, dammit. We'll have nothing for if the Imperial catches up! _

_ Worry about now. Plan for later. Run. _

Part of J'hazarr wanted nothing more than to turn and stab that damned Dunmer through the head, but the woman was still there, climbing up to her feet. He had to keep going. They had to get away before she attacked one of them – she didn't appear to be really injured at all. But J'hazarr could see that Two-Colors' armor was ripped and she was bleeding. The glass sword felt impossibly heavy, dragging down his arm, so J'hazarr let the flat of the blade rest on his shoulder as he lumbered after Two-Colors. The sun was so hot, beating down at his face. His hair was plastered to his skin with blood and sweat and he was panting, warm air scraping down his dry throat. He couldn't tell if the pounding in his skull was the sound of his blood or the sound of his feet on the road.


	14. Chapter 14

#  Chapter Fourteen

 

Favise watched them run away, throwing down her dagger in disgust. It puffed away into mist and she jogged over to her shed pack to get a healing potion for the swordsman. The loss of her quarry was an unfathomably bitter taste, a personal failure she would never forgive herself for, but she would be a fool to go after them alone. There were two rows of vials resting in loops sewn into the lining of her bag; she plucked one from each row and quickly moved back to kneel beside the swordsman.

“ Boy, are you alive?” Favise asked impatiently. She held the vials between her fingers and was already uncorking one for herself. Magicka flooded back to her as she drank, the sudden fullness of her power nearly intoxicating.

Ulien was aware of a voice. He pushed up onto his elbows, shaking his head, then winced at the stab of pain. Right. The little lizard had hit him in the head while he was looking at the Khajiit.

“ Yes,” he said. He was dimly aware that punishment was a possibility, but the ringing in his ears prevented him worrying about it too terribly much yet. He still felt slow and heavy. “I'm ali – b'vek. The filthy n'wah has my sword!” It was gone from the road. He flipped onto his backside and looked around furiously, but the shield still lay nearby. He hadn't lost that yet.

“ Shut up and drink this,” Favise snipped, pushing the vial of healing potion at his chest. “If we run we might still catch up to them. If you can run the Argonian off the road, I might just have a change to kill the Khajiit with a spell.”

Ulien downed the potion, then shook his head as it cleared. He rolled to his feet and went quickly to get the shield.

“ Yes, Sera!” He was looking forward to giving the little bitch a good kicking.

 

* * *

 

“ I say, Rullus,” Adrian said.

“ Hm?” Rullus glanced over at him from his study of the road in front of his feet.

“ Isn't that those same two Dunmer?”

“ What?” The Imperial straightened, then flipped his helmet forward over his head. “So it is.” As they watched the woman handed the man a vial, then he got up and went to get his shield out of the ditch where it apparently had been dropped or thrown.

“ You don't suppose they've caught up to J'hazarr,” Adrian said.

“ Why should he attack them? I concede the man is evil, but I have not heard of him randomly assaulting travelers.”

“ We could ask,” Adrian said.

“ Indeed we could.” Rullus increased his pace.

Favise was hoisting her bag up onto her back when she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She turned and saw the same men from earlier walking rapidly toward them.

_ There's no time for this! The Khajiit is getting away! _

_ But if he  _ does  _ escape your chances of finding him will be better if you've learned everything about him to be learned. This opportunity will not come again. _

“ Your Ohmes-raht friend, Serjos, was he with an Argonian?” Favise called out, her voice angry and shrill.

Ulien squinted at the noise practically in his ear, shield hanging from one arm as he watched the two men approach. His nose was now fully part of his face, but a glance into his reflective shield had confirmed his suspicion that it would never be straight again, his looks permanently marred. That annoyed him, but not as much as being dead and completely failing to carry out his mission would have.

“ Yes, the last time I saw him,” Rullus said calmly. He slowed as he approached, looking around: bloodstains in the dirt, marks of scuffling feet, an emperor mushroom leaning hard around a frozen and blasted stem. J'hazarr did not know any ice magic. He doubted whether the Argonian did either, or she ought to have used it earlier.

“ Then you could have warned the travelers you met that he was a highwayman,” Favise spat, gesturing angrily at the swordsman with one hand. “My nephew nearly died protecting us! Are you Legion? Bounty Hunters?!”

Adrian gnawed his lip, then turned to look at Rullus.

“ Up to you,” he said.

“ I did not believe him to be a highwayman,” Rullus said slowly. “I understood his quarrel to be only with me, and I have known him only to directly assault the cultists of the House of Troubles where he found them. J'hazarr committed a great crime many years ago in Cyrodiil as a worshipper of Vaermina. He poisoned a village's well. My wife and child were killed, and I have pursued him these many years since. He and I met earlier, and we fought, but he escaped.” He shrugged. “He has killed many worshippers of the Daedra since then, making himself popular with the Legion and the Temple here in Vvardenfell. Perhaps he sought to expiate his crimes; perhaps only to build himself a better reputation.”

Favise's face dropped as she processed this. It WAS him, the unknown “vigilante” that those of alternate faiths had been whispering about in recent years. That explained why Dagon wanted him dead; he was obviously a serious threat to the Mythic Dawn. It did not conveniently explain why he would have attacked a simple apothecary and her nephew.

Her face hardened into a cold glare.

“ I don't know that I believe that tale of yours, but he ran up the road just moments ago. I'd hurry if I were you.” If she were lucky the men would kill the Khajiit for her. If not, she at least knew who to seek out for more information about him: the Legion or the Temple. She'd made the right decision in asking.

Rullus was not watching the woman's face closely as she spoke, already staring grimly ahead into the dust through his helmet's slit. Adrian was. He lifted an eyebrow slightly at the sudden shift in expression.

“ Well, then,” he said. “We'll just hurry on our way, Madam. Terribly sorry. Look sharp, Rullus.” He strode briskly ahead, and Rullus, after a moment's puzzled stare, went after him, picking up his pace. The day was wearing on, the sun past its zenith and working its way slowly down the Western sky.

“ Adrian, what exactly are you doing?” he asked, when he judged they were out of earshot.

“ Something's rotten here,” he said. “This isn't like J'hazarr, is it?”

“ You didn't notice,” Rullus said. “Rurum was carrying a glass sword last time we saw him. Now he's carrying J'hazarr's mace. In his hand. J'hazarr is desperate, furious. He obviously attacked them in order to steal a better weapon. I know he knows how to use blades. He has before.”

“ Has he attacked people and stolen their things before?” Adrian asked doubtfully.

“ Not that I know for certain,” Rullus said. “Perhaps they never survived before to tell, since he was not fleeing for his life.”

“ He certainly didn't make much of a mark on those two, considering. Did you see that mushroom?”

“ Yes,” Rullus said. “I did see that.”

“ One of them's a mage. No weak one.”

“ Her, I think,” Rullus said. He had not been close enough to detect a strong aura, but she was the one who seemed unarmed.

“ What the hells is going on, Rullus?” Adrian asked. “They're not Morag Tong. They'd've told us and shown us their writ.”

“ No, I don't think they are legal assassins,” Rullus said. His tone was grim. “Does it matter really who they are? I'm not going to spare the murderer of Lambing Green just because I'm not the only one with reason to wish him dead.”

“ No,” Adrian said, then sighed. “No, I expect not. Well, we'd better move as fast as we can, then.”

 

* * *

 

“ It seems to me like we're doing a lot of running today, J'hazarr,” Two-Colors panted. She looked around, then slowed up to let the Ohmes-raht catch up. The two Dunmer had fallen back out of sight through the dust cloud. “Walk for a second.” She shrugged off one shoulder to flip the knapsack around to the front again and dig out the potion. The clay bottle had held up to all the pounding and sloshing of her weight rolling over it repeatedly. But then, she wasn't wearing full steel armor. J’hazarr was still breathing harshly through his nose while he watched her uncork the potion. He stabbed the sword into the dirt to take it from her.

A dull throbbing had settled into her left arm, and she could see only a couple of rawhide stitches holding it on. Two-Colors grimaced.

_ You can get more armor. It won't be the last set you ever own. _

_ Unless the Imperial catches up again. _

She tore the sleeve the rest of the way off,  _ rrrrip _ , and tossed it into the ditch. The bleeding seemed like it had slowed down, anyhow. She wasn't worried about getting sick.

J’hazarr glanced with confusion back and forth between Two-Colors and the bottle in his hand.

“ You're bleeding,” he stupidly announced.

“ Not much. Drink it right now, please,” Two-Colors said. Made reckless by near-panic, she put one hand on the bottom of the bottle and the other one on the back of his head to try and push them together. “Nr. Nrrrr.” Not that she actually could do that against any kind of resistance. Her arms were about half as big around as his.

J'hazarr flinched at the bottle coming up toward his face, liquid almost sloshing out of it, and shot her an incredulous sideways glance.

“ Okay, I'm doing it!” he said. His head hurt so bad and his thoughts were so fuzzy that he really didn't have the energy to question the decision further, and so he drank. Almost instantly the pounding in his skull and the remnant ache in his arm dissolved away, and suddenly the world was clearer.

He was still exhausted. He was still thirsty.

“ Thank you, Two-Colors,” he sighed, and handed the empty bottle to her so he could have his hands free. 

Two-Colors' shoulders sagged in relief as she puffed a breath out through her nostrils, watching his eyes grow clearer. It had disturbed her more than she would ever admit to see him punchy and staggering. When she had seen him helpless under the effects of a stamina drain she had inflicted, she had felt – no, actually. Not that triumphant. She had apologized to him as she set down the potion and ran away, even then. She took the bottle wordlessly and stuffed it back in her pack, then hung the bag on her right shoulder.

J’hazarr glanced behind before hastily lifting the helm onto his head and slapping down the visor. The huge dent in the forehead pressed into him irritatingly, but he wasn't about to be caught without it twice.

No one had come over the rise behind them yet, but he did not doubt that any minute now the strangers would catch up to them. But  _ why _ ? Who in the sixteen hells  _ were  _ they?

“ We have to get off this road,” he said quickly, then pulled the sword from the ground and resumed walking. “We've got to get your arm washed and bandaged.” A canton of Vivec – the Hlaalu district, if memory served – was towering out of the sea, blocking a large swath of sky to the Northeast. J'hazarr thought that the bridge to the canton might even be around the next bend. Getting themselves lost in that city seemed like their only hope of survival.

“ Fine by me,” she said. She squinted wearily up at the canton looming out of the fog. The wind had not yet changed to bring to her its confusion of smells, making it seem almost unreal, another plane. “Who were those people, anyway?”

J'hazarr shook his head slowly, squinting down at the ground in confusion.

“ I don't know,” he said, voice slightly muffled from inside the helm. “I swear I've never seen them before in my life, and I can't remember leaving any survivors behind in recent months – surviving cultists, that is, when I find their nests. Could it be that Rullus hired assassins to kill me?”

“ I don't know if those were assassins,” Two-Colors said slowly. “When that mer went running after you with just his shield he was yelling something – my life for the Destroyer? That doesn't sound like the Morag Tong.”

“ No, not the Morag Tong,” J'hazarr agreed. He turned to look behind himself again, then broke into a tired jog. “Dagon,” he panted. They were running up a short slope now and the muscles of his legs screamed at J'hazarr to rest. “The Destroyer is Mehrunes Dagon, whose bracers I dropped into the lava days ago. There weren't any survivors. That means Dagon himself set his hounds on me. But after all these years, why now?” He huffed between phrases, his own hot breath hitting the inside of his helm and rolling back in his face. He felt disgustingly grimy with all of the blood and sweat drying inside his armor.

Two-Colors ran lightly next to him, peering worriedly up at his face. He was old, right? How much more of this could he really take? Sure, she'd seen him fight and kill, but it hadn't been a long fight, and she remembered how limp he'd looked that first night sitting on his bedroll, tail flat as a dead racer's neck. He smelled so bad, even worse than the last time. It almost made her forget that running pulled and throbbed at her left arm.

“ How many of the things you destroyed up to this point were Dagon's?” she asked, trying hard to think. “Maybe the bracers were unique.”

Finally J'hazarr and Two-Colors topped the small rise and there in the valley before them lay the bridge to the canton. A guard with a spear stood watch over the bridge on the landward side. The rounded dome of the guard's bonemold helm announced him as Hlaalu as surely as the words on the flags fluttering from every tier of the canton. Colorful smudges that were people moved about on the walkways while a gondola glided casually beneath the bridge, probably ferrying pilgrims out to the Palace.

The Hlaalu weren't so hostile to outlanders that they would watch a pair be cut down by Dunmer assassins, and even Rullus couldn't be stupid enough to attack him in public. J'hazarr sighed with relief and actually reached out to grip Two-Colors by the shoulder.

“ We made it,” he wheezed, grinning tiredly, although she couldn't see that. He didn't know what he would do if she'd been murdered because of him, more innocent blood on his hands that he could never wash away.

“ Damn right,” Two-Colors said. She reached up to rest her hand on his shoulder in turn. Maybe he wasn't mad that she'd tried to shove a potion in his mouth earlier. He hadn't smacked her, not even out of reflex. That thought preoccupied her worriedly. She wasn't sure why. Her head felt strange in a way that she'd never experienced before, like it was floating slightly above her shoulders.

_ I'm just tired. He is, too, and he's lost a lot of blood. We have to get undercover as soon as we can. _

“ I've never been here,” she said, as they moved forward into the crowd under the gaze of Dunmer in golden masks. The people around them stared at them in startled disapproval, some deliberately routing around the combined stink of dirt and blood that must be so powerful even an elf could detect it. “Where do you hide? There's no... there's no alleys.”

“ Nope,” J'hazarr agreed. “If you want to hide, you've got to go down.” 

J'hazarr kept his visor down just to make it harder for anyone to identify him. The walkway that rimmed the tiers of the cantons were twice as wide as a normal city road.  There were doors in the plaster walls sometimes with signs in Dunmeris, shops or clubs; one had a red lantern outside and a couple of young Dunmer men loitering, picking their teeth. Two-Colors felt their eyes on her knapsack, but they looked at the man in the steel armor and did nothing. Thick windows of teardrop-shaped glass bubbled along the walls. Merchants with wheeled carts or wares spread out on blankets hugged the walls, although this late in the day many were packing up. There was little privacy in a place like Vivec, the homes were tiny, waste disposal was probably a massive issue, and J'hazarr couldn't fathom why anyone would want to live there. He supposed it had something to do with the palace of a living god being nearby.

Occasionally they would pass a steep ramp that tunneled up through the canton to a higher tier. J'hazarr pointed up the walkway. “The wealthy live in manors at the top of the dome. The poor trickle down the tiers like refuse and all the garbage collects in the underworks at the very bottom. We’re stopping one level above that, in the canalworks.”

“ That figures,” Two-Colors said. 

Eventually they came to a battered door with  _ Maintenance Workers Only _ painted in big black letters in Dunmeris. The lock had been bashed in and the door wasn't fully shut. J'hazarr glanced around to be sure no ordinators were looking in their direction before pushing it open. He nudged Two-Colors inside with a hand on her back like it just wasn't anything, not angry, not shoving, just in-you-go. She felt weirdly warm again. Probably it was whatever was wrong with her head. 

The door opened onto a narrow ramp leading down into darkness. Lanterns hung from wooden crossbeams on the ceiling, but they were all burnt out. The ramp doubled back on itself twice, and as they approached the bottom – J'hazarr plodding heavily along with one hand on a slick wall, trying not to run over Two-Colors in the near total dark – the sound of running water grew louder. Then a faint light appeared at the bottom of the ramp.

A long hall stretched away from the bottom landing, as tall and as grand as any cathedral back in Cyrodiil. It was too dark to see the ceiling, but the movement of the air inside made it feel incredibly vast. The walls were unpainted plaster the color of old bone, with heavy, angular support pillars built into the walls themselves. Lining each side of the seemingly endless hall were unornamented founts spilling white-frothy water into small basins on the floor. The roar of so many little waterfalls was nearly deafening. A lantern or a candle was lit here and there, just sitting on the floor, tiny pinpricks of light in the dark. They could make out the dark shapes of people standing at a distant fountain, but no one moved to intercept them or seemed to care about them at all.

More new and strange smells assaulted Two-Colors’ nostrils, some familiar and unpleasant, some strange and new. The place had a damp, soap-and-mildew smell, with an acrid undertone of piss. Skooma had been down here, and a lot of Dunmer who were sick or unclean or both, and cheap liquor of a few different kinds. And rats. The scent of rat shit was one you never forgot, and while it was not pervasive, she caught a whiff of it every so often. The plaster had its own smell that she quickly nudged out of awareness as background. The lanterns and candles gave forth a scent of gently burning fat and wax, one of the less unpleasant down here.

“ This is the canalworks?” she whispered.

“ Yes,” J'hazarr said in a normal tone, moving to stand between a pair of fountains where he could rest the sword against the wall. He immediately began to remove his armor, first lifting up the helm and setting it beside the sword. Two-Colors straightened up a little at his ordinary voice. No real need to be secretive down here in the dark, she guessed. It wasn't some corner of a dead end or back alley. This space was vast and mostly empty, and nobody cared what they did. 

“ Because fresh water is such a problem in the city, it's all recycled,” he went on to explain, unstrapping the rest of his armor hastily and letting it clatter down like it had offended him. “The rich at the top get the cleanest water, then it's shunted down to the next tier and so on. So all the dirty wash water ends up here. From what I've seen, all the homeless in the city live down here, or maybe it's just poor people who come to wash their laundry. I haven't spent much time here, to be honest. But there's another level below this, the sewer, and sometimes cultists hold their meetings down there because the ordinators don't police it at all.”

When he was stripped down to his armor padding and shoes, J'hazarr sat down on the rim of a basin, which was as tall as Two-Colors' hips, and began unlacing the ties on the front of his gambeson. There was a big drainage hole in the basin covered by a metal grate, which was partially gunked up with hair and black grime. He didn't seem to mind the spray of the falling water flecking his hair.

“ How much water have you got in your canteen?” he asked. “I wouldn't use this water to clean your wound.”

She shrugged just her right shoulder, then slid the pack off to hold in one hand, leaning her hip against the basin. “Maybe two cups, but why not? I'm not going to catch anything. I've literally breathed water with shit in it and not gotten sick. Argonians mostly don't.”

“Ah,” he said.  “I'm not used to hanging around with Argonians, so I didn't think about that.” 

She rummaged for the water skin, holding the bag in her left hand as she dug it out with her right.

“You should drink it instead. You lost a lot of blood back there, did you think I didn't see?”

J'hazarr was pulling his arms out of his sleeves, but he paused in what he was doing to look up at her. He didn't move his face much, but there was a tiny hint of puzzlement in his eyes.

“ I know you saw it,” he said, slowly reaching out to take the skin from her. He held it for a moment, just staring at her, his eyes narrowed in a slight squint at her face. J'hazarr felt a sudden dropping away beneath his feet, even though he was sitting, a coldness in his belly. The people who tried to treat J'hazarr kindly were figments from a dream. Their kindness made him far sicker than their scorn ever could have. He'd left those people a world away just to escape the generosity he didn't deserve. But Two-Colors was very real and just looking at her face didn't trigger that cascade of shame. He could accept her kindness without guilt.

Two-Colors felt pinned by those black glossy eyes, unable to move or look away; but she did not feel afraid. She felt that she would never feel afraid of J'hazarr again. Maybe he didn't believe her, or thought she was angling for some other gain. She couldn't blame him, not after all she'd done, but guilt was a distant blurry thing at the moment with all of the other really difficult feelings.

J’hazarr was almost overcome with the urge to run away. Instead he looked away from her while he lifted the water to his lips. The water washing over his tongue was bliss, but he limited himself to half of it.

“ Thank you,” he said calmly, handing it back to her when he was done, then continued wriggling out of the gambeson and pushing it down around his waist to leave his upper body exposed. The faded blue stripes continued down along his shoulders, back, the insides and backsides of both arms, and on his belly. The tattoos were distorted on the left side, where mottled patches of old pink burns covered a large portion of his body, in some places looking almost like melted wax.

He leaned forward to hold his blood-encrusted arm under the spray while rubbing the grime off with his other hand. He kept his eyes on the task to avoid looking at Two-Colors.

“ No problem,” she said slowly, and had a drink before she put the waterskin away and set the bag down by her foot, pinned against the basin where no enterprising hand could rapidly extract it. She glanced at his upper body as he peeled off the smelly padding, then stared. She had seen him in less than she had wished at the time, but with nothing at all covering his torso there were so many scars. She had not realized the burn scars covered so much of him. He must have literally been on fire, or been blasted with a fireball bigger than his body, or both. Two-Colors looked away, inhaling.

“ If you're going to punish yourself all the time for things that aren't your fault, you can just subtract me from that list.” She leaned forward to splash water carefully onto the mess on her left arm. She was ready for it to hurt when the cold hit it, so her lips stayed down over her teeth as she clamped them together. After a second's pause she went on. It wasn't so bad as you got used to it. It was nice to have the dried and sticky stuff off her fingers and scales. Even the shield edge had cut some of her scales cleanly in half as it slid through. Thank the gods or Hist or whatever was relevant that the dagger had never touched her.

“ Oh, you were never on that list,” J'hazarr said dryly, although a firm smile broke across his lips. “You did try to kill me, so a drink from your water skin is the least you can do.” He cupped his hands beneath the water and closed his eyes while he splashed water onto his forehead, drenching his hair. That was going to leave a soapy film on his skin later, but at least they were bathing in wash water, not toilet water. He rubbed at his face with wet fingers, then picked at his bangs to get the dried blood out before rinsing his hands under the stream again.

“ And don't you forget it, old man,” she said firmly. She grumbled as she continued to wash the wound in her arm, trying not to disturb the bigger clots. “Nobody is allowed to stab you but me.” At some point she might find that to be a stupid thing to say, but her head still felt funny. At some point she'd done as much as she could, and her arm was on fire from the soap that had gotten into the wound. She leaned there silently for a minute with her forearm resting on the edge of the basin, eyes half-shut, thinking of nothing in particular.  _ Could wash my feet. My toes are disgusting. Probably blood all over them. _

She checked. They were. She hopped awkwardly around to wash those, too.

_ There’s that  _ old man  _ again _ , J’hazarr thought. It was beginning to feel less of an insult and more a term of endearment. J'hazarr wasn't sure how he felt about that.

If Two-Colors hadn't been there J'hazarr probably would have stripped naked to wash his gambeson and his body, but neither that nor leaving her alone to do so in the corner seemed like the appropriate course of action. He was resigned to living in his filthy clothes for the rest of the night. It didn't bother him terribly much.

Still sitting on the basin with his back against the wall, tail hanging down limp, J'hazarr watched her clean her clawed feet without expression other than a slight lifting of his lips. Her feet seemed to be too big for her.

“ After all these years, I finally hurt the Daedra enough to piss them off,” he finally said. “I can hide from those two Dunmer, but I can't hide from the omniscient eyes of Dagon. From this point on it might never be safe to hang around me.”

“ Because my life was so bloody safe before.” Her own laugh sounded sort of a drunken cackle in her ears, and she stopped immediately, squinting. She'd get dirty again down here, but at least she wouldn't be leaving a blood-scent trail any drunk Argonian with half his nose missing could follow. “Anyhow, it's too late. They've already seen me and I assume so has... He. Being somewhere you aren't seems like it wouldn't probably help.”

J’hazarr shrugged.

“ That's true, I guess. You did help to steal the bracers.”

She huffed out a breath, turning to look at him. Poor sad tail. She wanted to tuck it up warm and safe.

_ Oh gods, not the tail thing again. Good to remember: wanting to touch J'hazarr's tail means there is something wrong with your brain. _

“ Can we find some corner to sleep in?” she asked. “We can lay on the blanket, or under it, I don't care.” She wasn't going to pretend to be squeamish about huddling together for warmth after the events of two days ago.

J'hazarr glanced around the hall. He had never been in the Hlaalu canalworks before, but it looked identical to the other cantons. They were impossible to see in this dark, but he knew that further down hallways would branch away from the main one. There were a lot of storage units for lease down here. Some of those were used by the city as vaults, while others would be shops whose owners couldn't afford a permit upstairs – those sold mostly stolen goods. Yet others had been abandoned, broken into and filled with squatters. And then there were the access hatches to the sewer. You had as good a chance of having the place totally to yourself as you did of running into a raving madman higher than a cliff racer's nuts. No, better to take their chances up here.

“ I vote we bed down right here. It's mostly homeless that come to wash up through here, but if we go deeper that's when we'll run into the real weirdos. We have to put the sword under the blanket,” J'hazarr said. “Not saying they'd succeed, but somebody'll try to slit our throats in our sleep for sure if even an inch of that is visible.”

Tomorrow J'hazarr would have to figure out what to even DO with it. Walking around with a glass sword was obscene. A steel weapon did the job just as well, and you didn't get random assholes trying to kill you for it. J'hazarr stomach twisted itself up in knots just thinking of all the hot meals he'd be able to afford for the coming months if he pawned it.

“ Fuck, yes. Even in Balmora.” Two-Colors shuddered once. “All right.” Her impulse was to try and find some darker corner, but he knew the place and she didn't. Maybe worse things lurked. Under the blanket they would just look like a couple more homeless, and J'hazarr's scars might deter a casual thief. It would've at least made her look twice, a month ago, if she'd seen him sleeping in an alley. That seemed like a lifetime away now. Gods, she'd been afraid of Habasi more than anything back then. What a small, stupid person. She was glad she felt too floaty and odd to loathe herself for it.

She dug her blanket out of the pack. He'd said something about bandaging her arm when they were back on the road, but increasingly she felt tired and disinclined to bother with it. It had stopped bleeding mostly, and they were out of spare trousers.

There was still food in there, wrapped wax packets. She stared at it blankly for a second, swaying slightly until she leaned far enough to put her shoulder to the wall beside the basin. She wasn't sure if she felt hungry or not. A little thirsty, yes, and her head was starting to hurt, but hungry? She snagged a couple of dried pears and offered him the bag. She didn't even remember dropping the jar of eggs by the road, but she must have.

“ Eat something,” she said. “It'll help.”

J'hazarr watched the Argonian with mild suspicion, but even he realized she was probably just tired, not dizzy from blood loss. He took the blanket from her and laid the sword down on the floor so he could cover it up. Then he sat down with his legs crossed, back against the wall and took the bag from her, to put in his lap. He sat on one corner of the blanket so she could sit down without touching him, and he kept his tail curled close to his thigh. The sword was a hard lump under his ass.

“ Come sit down before you fall over,” he said, sniffing at the wrapped packets until he found both pears and jerky. He didn't feel at all bad about taking her food – and he took quite a bit. J'hazarr had already decided to sell the sword. Let that bastard go to every pawn shop in Vivec looking if he wanted it back.

“ I think tomorrow we'll go to the Temple. I'm not in Vivec as often as Ald'ruhn, but maybe someone here will remember me and take pity on us.” J'hazarr put a slice of dried pear into his mouth then and chewed unhurriedly.

“ Yuh.” Two-Colors lowered herself cautiously onto the blanket beside him, right arm toward him just in case, and tilted her head up and back against the wall. The eye visible to J'hazarr was a narrow slit, faintly reflective in the dark, white throat pulsing visibly below.

Not moving felt good. The arm hurt less. Not moving made things around her sort of expand and contract in a weird way, also.

After a moment she realized her tail was just flopped out to one side and curled it around her toes, hands resting on the blanket. Her movements were very slow and very careful, inch at a time, a thing she had done before but did not realize she was doing now.

“ The giant asshole probably won't come after us there, either. So at least we're safe while we're actually inside it.”

J'hazarr watched Two-Colors from the corner of his eye, stifling the urge to scoot further away. That would be rude. But it felt uncomfortable in a way he didn't understand to be so close to her. Excepting that night in the ash storm, it had been a very long time since he'd been physically near another person for any length of time. Now he could smell the pear on her breath and feel the heat of her body, faintly, on his arm.

He grunted his agreement with her assessment and continued putting food in his mouth until he noticed the movement of her tail. He swallowed the jerky in his mouth, wadded up the papers and tossed them out away from himself.

“ Are you in pain?” he asked, shifting her bag off his lap so that he could turn to face her, one hand on the blanket between them, the other braced on his thigh.

No,” she said automatically. Then she shut her eyes.  _ It's J'hazarr. Don't be stupid. _

“ Arm hurts a little. Head hurts too. I feel – I don't know. It's never happened before.”

“ Uh, what?” His heart missed a beat there. J'hazarr shifted again, onto his thigh so he could look at her more fully. With the blood cleaned away he could see her cut clearly now and it wasn't still bleeding. But he hadn't been watching her the entire time – had she hit her head? Could she have a concussion? He raised his hand toward her hesitantly, brows furrowed.

She lowered her head slowly, tracking the movement with just her eyes.

“ It was all right while we were running, but when we slowed down I started to feel floaty. Like my head's all up here.” She raised a hand to about a foot above her own head, then lowered it. “Sitting down makes it better, but now the walls're... They sort of throb in and out.” Her voice was quiet, but the words were clear, not slurred together. Her eyes came to rest on the tip of his tail again. “Poor cold tail. It needs a pant leg. Tail pants.”

“ Uh-huh,” J'hazarr said, following her gaze down to his tail before glancing up at her face again. His tail twitched and shifted closer to his body. In this dark, he couldn't tell if her pupils were dilated when they shouldn't be, but he didn't remember anything odd about her when they'd been out on the road.

_ You idiot. You should have taken her directly to the Temple. You should have looked for an alchemist. Even a cheap heal would have been better than nothing. _

“ Two-Colors,” he said, putting his hand on her opposite shoulder to turn her toward him. “I need to check the inside of your mouth.”

She was watching his tail still, so she didn't see him move. Two-Colors did not flinch. The wound was further down, and he hadn't touched it. His hand just felt warm.

It seemed like an odd request, but she couldn't see any reason to say no. It was still J'hazarr. He wasn't going to hurt her. She opened her mouth slowly. There were two teeth missing on the left, but otherwise they weren't in bad shape, still sharp and yellow-white. J'hazarr cupped the underside of her jaw to pull her lip down with his thumb. He moved without hesitation, the discomfort of his personal space invaded by another forgotten. Her gums were a little pale, and her long tapering tongue was definitely a lighter pink than was usual for an Argonian, but it was not the ghastly white that would have marked an emergency. She just needed rest. So did he. 

Two-Colors bore this patiently, wondering why she wasn't more bothered to have someone's fingers in her mouth. She didn't even particularly have the urge to bite him. Anyhow whatever he was looking for wasn't there, and he seemed all right with that. She'd never hidden wire in her mouth and she wasn't one with a muzzle long enough to fit a pick in there. She'd've just given him one if he really wanted one, but he didn't ask.

J'hazarr patted her on the shoulder of her uninjured side as he withdrew, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief.

“ Lie down and go to sleep, kid,” he said, leaning his head back against the wall again. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew that every time he did he'd see Olivia standing by her door, hear Rullus patiently explaining the true depth of J'hazarr's crime. There was no point trying. “I'll be awake to watch you.”

She stared at him stupidly for a second. Then she eased down onto her right side and curled up into as small a ball as possible per usual, tail curled up over her shoulder, nose tucked downward.

After a second she very carefully raised her left hand and poked him in the side of the leg. With the first knuckle, not the claw.

“ You're better than they say you are,” she said. “You're not him.”

She couldn't quite remember why that was important, but having said it, she felt relieved enough to shut her eyes. The world turned itself off shortly after that.

J'hazarr stared down at her in bewilderment, lips twitching twice as he almost responded, but there was nothing to even say. Then a peculiar, prickly warmth flooded through him from the inside out and he eased back again, skull to the wall, hands on his thighs. This warmth was nothing J'hazarr recalled ever having felt before. His eyes swept over her from the side, allowing himself to acknowledge that she was cute when she was curled up tight like a little foul-mouthed pangolin.

“ I don't know that you're right,” he said quietly, the rush of the water drowning out the sound of his own voice. “But... thanks.”

He stared into the dark, letting the warmth inside him swallow up a cold, distant dread. That dread never really broke through the surface into his conscious mind – but it was there, waiting, little bubbles of air gathering like foam in the water.

There was no time for staring into the pool of memory now. Something unimaginably monstrous lay in wait at the bottom beneath the black muck, and J'hazarr knew that someday it would reach out, grab him by the neck and retreat, plunging back into the icy water with the Khajiit in its jaws. Two-Colors needed him now, clear-headed and strong. Her words were all the fuel he needed to pretend for the night that the reflection in the water was entirely his own; that nothing lurked below.

He slept lightly, always half-conscious and vaguely aware of sounds around them. At one point a dirty Bosmer came stumbling over. His arms were wrapped around his body while he shivered violently and babbled nonsense to himself. Two-Colors had a hand on her dagger without ever waking up all the way; but all J'hazarr had to do was lean out from the wall with a purposeful look in his eye and the mer scampered off. He settled back down and eventually dozed off again. Two-Colors relaxed, murmuring  _ asshole  _ in Jel, and snorfled into the blanket as she fell back asleep. The rest of the night was uneventful.

 

* * *

Adrian and Rullus both noticed the discarded, bloody sleeve in the ditch. Rullus knew this because they both went over to look at it. It was much too small to be worn by J'hazarr. The edges had been cut perfectly clean and straight, as if by something very sharp. Afterward there was a line of blood drops that went on for a surprisingly long time before petering out. By the time it dried up they were looking at Hlaalu canton.

“ There was a great deal of blood back on the path,” Adrian said.

“ Yes,” Rullus said.

“ But that must've been from J'hazarr. She wouldn't have survived.”

“ That was my conclusion as well, yes.”

“ Probably enough to be an inconvenience for someone that small, still,” he said.

“ Adrian, I appreciate your insight, but if you could stop attempting to share it for just a little while I would be extremely grateful.”

Adrian did not say _ we'll never find them in Vivec, _ or  _ I'm not sure we should believe anything those two Dunmer told us. _ Instead what he said, gently, was,

“ Perhaps we ought not stay in the Foreign Quarter after all, old fellow.”

“ We could do worse than the Hlaalu,” Rullus agreed tiredly. “I'm sure they've got some kind of inn or hostel that will allow a foreigner to stay.”

Together the two men hiked across the bridge into the noise and crowd of the Hlaalu Canton. Rullus looked at an ordinator in their shiny layered armor, pauldrons pointed and high, for perhaps a second before the gold mask with its feather crest snapped around and a voice from behind it said,

“ Let's not make this official, outlander. Move along!”

So asking the guards if they'd seen anyone was right out. For the moment, Rullus gave up. It was going to be a long enough walk up to anywhere they could reasonably stay.

 

* * *

Rullus and Adrian had a meal, a wash and a full night's sleep at the Elven Nations Cornerclub on the Plaza atop Hlaalu Canton. There was no real inn atop the canton, but both cornerclubs rented small rooms at high rates (undoubtedly higher to outlanders). The Elven Nations club served a notably better clientele. It wasn't that Rullus was too good for the dirty thugs at the other club, it was that he didn't like having his sleep interrupted by having to flatten some idiot trying to steal his armor.

Inquiry found no evidence that J'hazarr and Two-Colors had ever been there, and those whom they asked were not helpful. Adrian was inside the No Name Club for suspiciously long, Rullus thought, and he looked somewhat smug when he came out. Rullus didn't ask.

“ Not a thing,” he said in answer to Rullus' query, as they walked back toward the Elven Nations Cornerclub. “Depend upon it, old chap, they're levels below us hiding in the Waterworks if they stopped in this canton at all.”

“ I don't think they'd make it all the way to the Foreign Quarter,” Rullus said. “They had to fight and run twice yesterday. Both lost blood.” He felt an odd pang about that, was it guilt? Why should he feel guilty about anything that happened to J'hazarr?

_ But the Argonian, did she deserve this? You can't know. _

“ Tomorrow we'll talk to the gondoleers.” They shared a glum silence for a moment. Neither looked forward to trying to get the attention of various boat people in the process of plying their busy trade.

“ Well,” Rullus said. “He's probably still carrying a glass sword. That ought to make it easier.”


	15. Chapter 15

#  Chapter Fifteen

 

J'hazarr woke to light and pain. The light came from directly across the hall, where a crew of three Dunmer city workers (he presumed) wearing tight-fitted clothing were cleaning the drains. They were using tongs to deposit gunk into buckets before scrubbing the basins and they had tied cloth masks around their lower faces. Each carried a lantern, which they left on the walkway while they cleaned.

The pain came from J'hazarr's tailbone and back, a result of sitting upright all night. He groaned. He heard clicking internally when he shifted, moving his stiff arms to pull himself back inside his gambeson.

As J'hazarr groaned Two-Colors' eyes slitted open.  _ Smells: J'hazarr. Iron, dirty clothes. Dried blood, mine, his. Blanket, glass, soapy water, piss, damp, mold.  _ Her arm hurt, but she remembered that there was a reason for that. Her head felt clearer than yesterday. She felt like yesterday she'd said something really stupid again.

_ He looked inside my mouth. Why did he...? _

_ Because that's how you check for blood loss in an Argonian. Can't tell if we're pale because of the scales outside. I must've really sounded like an idiot. What did I say? She canvassed her memory and eventually found words. _

“ Oh, xuth,” she groaned. “I fucking said something about tail pants, didn't I.” She sat up slowly, then clutched at her head at a small stab of pain. She'd never been drunk enough to get a hangover, but she'd always assumed this was what it would feel like, tongue swaddled in dry cotton, eyes feeling fat in their sockets.

“ Yes. Yes, you did,” J'hazarr said, smiling and wincing at the same time while he worked his hands out of the arm holes in his sleeves. He moved with some haste to lace up the front of his gambeson, now that it was brighter and his ugly scars were more visible. His skin and clothes felt just moist enough to be irritating thanks to the water spraying into the air.

“ I take it you're feeling better now, though?” he asked. He braced one arm against the wall to climb stiffly to his feet, then reached down for his boots. J'hazarr wanted to get the hell out of there. The sooner they got their supplies from the Temple and left Vivec, the better. 

“ Yeah. Lots,” she said. She reached for the bag and sorted through it to find a couple of pieces of jerky, then nudged it at him. “Here, eat the food. I can get us more if you give me a few minutes to get oriented to this whole indoor thing.”

J'hazarr slanted his eyes at Two-Colors, lips pursed slightly as he paused to take the bag from her.

“ Get us more how?” he asked with playful suspicion. “I want to get out of Vivec as soon as possible and needing to break you out of jail would not be conducive to that end.” 

“ Hey, don't insult me, asshole. I've never been to jail 'cause I've never been caught.” She paused, then amended that. “Not since I was eight, anyhow. And that time he let me off with a warning.” Her tone softened after that. “Anyway, how are you, head's okay?” She popped the meat in her mouth and staggered over to look around, squinting in the darkness, and then shoved her head into the flow of soapy water, opening her mouth to swallow some of it. It didn't taste great, it'd probably kill you if you drank it for a week and nothing else, but it was better than nothing. From inside the waterfall she could be heard going _ wargle argle argle. _

J’hazarr ate some of the jerky standing, continuing to speak around his chewing, “Head's fine. I wasn't the one gibbering 'bout tail pants.” He cringed at the imagined taste of soapy water suddenly flooding over his own tongue, and turned away.

“ I thought we'd go to the High Fane – that's the Temple here in Vivec. I know one of the priests, Nelvil Urithas. He  _ might  _ provide us transport out of the city, but I don’t know him as well as Hlanis. The High Fane’s a long way from here, the Southernmost canton aside from the Palace. We could take a gondola for probably only a drake or two. We could spare the expense if you wanted, seeing as I'll be selling this soon.” J'hazarr tapped the covered sword with his foot. “But it's your gold. I won't tell you what to do with it.”

He shoved another chunk of jerky into his mouth before tossing the bag down and returned to armoring himself while chewing slowly.

Two-Colors stayed under for several seconds, leaning her hands on the edge of the surround, tail flapping from side to side. She emerged from the waterfall blinking, snorting a small spray of soapy water out of her nostrils. When her ear patches had stopped ringing and she was breathing air again she said,

“I don't mind paying for a gondola. Where are you going to fence something like that? And anyhow, then you won't have a weapon. For stabbing things with. You can't have my extra, it's busted now because that bitch cast some kind of spell on it.”

She looked at her left arm. It hadn't magically healed up completely overnight, but it didn't look like it had bled more, either. Good enough. Today she ought to try and get some kind of loose shirt or cotte for over her leather cuirass that would cover it. Having a missing sleeve and a giant arm scab was overly memorable when you were trying to run and hide.

When he'd got his helm on, visor flipped up, J’hazarr rolled up her blanket and stuffed it into her bag. Then he laid the flat of the glass sword against his shoulder to carry it that way, since he didn't have the sheath.

“ I dunno,” J'hazarr said, idly flipping the sword over on his shoulder as they moved out, letting reflected lantern light flash across the blade. He heard the workers stop their scrubbing and murmur to one another. It wasn't every day that you saw a man with a glass sword hanging around the canalworks. “I doubt I'd find anyone that would pay me what it's really worth, but even, say, a thousand drakes could buy us healing potions for your arm and get us boat fare out of the city. This is a very fine weapon but I'm not sure it's worth the trouble of having. It'll make us stand out.” 

“ Good point. People will remember it. At least maybe we can get them to trade across another weapon for it with the money,” Two-Colors said. The idea of J'hazarr wandering around unarmed made her a little sick.  _ Relax. He's not stupid. He probably already knows everything you're suggesting, he's got to be like five times older than you. _

J’hazarr let Two-Colors go up the steps first so he could follow ploddingly, still aching from sleep. It was still early, and yet the streets of Vivec were already filled with people and the air with smoke, wafting up from the channels below. At least one person was burning dried manure.  _ Don't buy food from anyone whose fire looks blue,  _ Two-Colors thought. _ I won't get sick but J'hazarr might.  _ The citizens hurried by without a second glance at anything. The pilgrims lingered, looking at the cheap junk piled up on blankets spread on the walkway.

Today she worked hard at paying attention to their surroundings as they went, the people, the smells. It was a relief to think that no one was going to really look at her next to an armored Ohmes-raht carrying a glass sword on his shoulder. There were skooma eaters around, smelled more than seen. A certain number of people were probably using but still functional, just like anywhere, needing it to get through their work day. She saw one of the clowns in the gold masks – ordinators – roust a hulking Imperial out of a corner where he'd been sleeping and snarl at him to move along. The masked guard was half his size, but the man staggered away as fast as he could, snorting and reeking of unwashed body odor. People gave them room. There was visibly fear of them more than of the Hlaalu guards she had been used to see.  _ They are the arm of the Temple, not just of a House – the hand of a god. Of course people are afraid. _

They wound through the crowd to the nearest dock – it wasn't far, there were staircases built into every wall of the canton that lead down to the water. Rafts and boats were clustered around the dock, and the gondolier spotted them before J'hazarr could even pick her out of the crowd.

“ Hey, outlanders!” the Dunmer woman called to them, standing up in her narrow boat and waving. She had a long pole tucked against one arm and a broad-rimmed straw hat to protect from the sun. “One drake, any place in Vivec! Very scenic ride without the crowds.” She poled her boat closer, letting the gondola bump against the edge of the dock.

“ We don't need the scenic route. To the High Fane, please,” J'hazarr said. The boat rocked disconcertingly when he stepped in and J'hazarr's hand tightened around the hilt of the sword, tail flying out behind himself for balance – he nearly cast water-walk on impulse before hastily seating himself instead.

The direct route was apparently very scenic in any case. They passed through the main waterway that cut through the heart of the city, cantons rising like mountains from the water on either side of them. Two-Colors openly gaped as they passed beneath the arching bridges connecting the cantons, rows of flags snapping in the wind high above their heads. There was so much color, such a carnival of scents and sights, filth and sickness and beauty and movement all mixed up together in a dizzying stew of sensory overload. Fountains lining the walls dumped recycled water into the canal. (This was probably more impressive to a member of a species who could not smell the lingering pollution.) All of it was giving her a headache again.

Directly ahead rose the Temple, different in design from the other cantons: instead of a big square block with a domed top, the Temple of the High Fane was a series of three fat trapezoidal building at the top of a two-tiered plaza. The trapezoids were wide on the bottom and tapered upward to flat tops, the walls heavily ornamented with rows of stylized religious script. The right and left building had doorways tucked below layers of rounded stone reminiscent of the crab-shell homes of the Redoran, while the middle pillar had a tunnel cutting through the center through which one could see the Palace beyond.

Tall statues stood on either side of the plaza: Vivec stabbing something which looked like a giant shalk through the heart with his spear, and another that was just a giant triolith. But these features were all dwarfed by the wonder of Baar Dau, the third moon that hung in the sky above the Temple like a dirty lump of coal. J'hazarr had seen it several times before. That didn't stop him from joining Two-Colors in staring at it with muted awe. She hadn't been prepared for how big it was. It cast a giant shadow, and she imagined that she could almost feel it vibrating in place, interrupted in its journey to the sea. It was hollow on the inside, housing the Ministry of Truth, and staircases and platforms had been built into the side of it. Even now they could see a tiny figure standing on a balcony up there.

The crowds were absent from the Temple canton. There were people, yes, but the vendors and merchants and the clusters of dirty peasants on their rafts had mysteriously vanished from the waterways around the canton. They had been replaced with golden-masked ordinators patrolling on boats, by ornately-robed priests leading quiet groups of pilgrims to the triolith shrine. J'hazarr suddenly felt incredibly under-dressed and dirty.

“ If you want the Palace, you'll have to go by foot from here,” the gondolier said as they approached the dock. The looming canton wall swallowed up their view of the Temple as they neared it, but the Ministry of Truth was still visible hanging above their heads. Then they bumped up against the dock. Other gondoliers waited nearby for the returning groups of pilgrims. Otherwise, there was no traffic.

Two-Colors kept very close to J'hazarr as they debarked, tail pulled in close to one leg. She, too, felt how filthy and poor they must look. It was if anything surprising one of the masked goons hadn't tried to hassle J'hazarr about the sword. A couple of priests and priestesses eyed them, but they were busy herding pilgrims.

“ You know somebody here?” she whispered.

“ Probably,” J'hazarr said, dragging out the word slightly as they climbed the many, many, too damned many steps to the upper tier of the canton. “It's been months since I saw Nelvil and I can't guarantee he'll remember me or care about our plight.”

As they were crossing the plaza toward the Temple, J'hazarr noted an ordinator down the far end of the tunnel begin to move toward them. J'hazarr quickened his step, angling himself toward the left entrance, his boots a rapid clap against the polished stone. Sure enough, the ordinator was moving faster to intercept them. J'hazarr got his hand on the doorknob before the ordinator was even halfway to them and yanked it open.

“ Down the hall to the right,” he hissed. They were facing a bland hallway that lead to the offices of city officials, but there were steps leading up to the Temple entrance. They could already hear voices lowered in prayer.

“ So he's gonna broom us,” Two-Colors said. Well, it wasn't like she'd never been thrown out of anywhere. Hopefully they wouldn't treat the big lug any different if he came asking for them. He was an outlander too, right?

_ A rich, polite outlander who doesn't look like a homeless asshole. Don't pretend that doesn't make a difference. _

At J'hazarr's prompting she hurried forward into the hallway. The atmosphere was thick with the smells of incense, dust, old paper, a lot of Dunmer and a very few others in a confined space over a long period of time, layered scents over layered scents. The simple geometric designs on the tapestries had a formal and well-worn look to them, rich colors gently dulled by time. The rugs were duller in color, but the weave was tight and complex on any close inspection. No expense had been spared on the impression of austere holiness. The floor was incredibly, almost terrifyingly clean; she could see a Dunmer in a robe sweeping far down at the other end of it as she scooted forward.

The hall ended in a short series of steps that lead to the Temple of the High Fane. There was less floor space than at the Temple of Ald'ruhn, but because it was housed inside one of the pillars, the ceiling was incredibly tall. It stretched on and on, growing narrower near the top before shadow swallowed up the walls. This Temple housed a large number of triolith shrines arranged in a semi-circle at the perimeter of the room, one for every saint and God. The offerings left at the ash pit in the center of the room were notably grand; glittering rubies and opals set in elaborate brooches, ceremonial daggers and helms that shined with enchantment.

It wasn't that uncommon for a warrior to come to the shrines to be blessed before undertaking some dangerous mission, but they didn't usually show up with torn clothing and old blood dried on their armor or bodies.

They also tended to be Dunmer.

And that was why nearly every head in the room turned to look their way as they entered.  _ Fuck me running, everyone's looking!  _ Two-Colors wanted to shrink into a tiny ball and disappear, but that was impossible. There was nowhere to hide. She stood beside J'hazarr, pulse thundering in her ears and fluttering in her throat, holding her tail quite still and trying to look harmless. There were absolutely no other betmer present, and if they had been, they’d likely be in slave's bracers. J'hazarr glanced about urgently, spotted a priestess moving about the room to light candles with her own magicka. From that he assumed she was not a pilgrim passing through.

“ Blessings of ALMSIVI, Muthsera,” he said as he approached her, hoping to appear adequately reverent despite his haste. He could hear rapid heavy footfalls in the hall behind them now. “I'm looking for my friend, Nelvil Urithas. Do you know if he is at the High Fane today?”

The priestess surveyed J'hazarr from head to toe and then Two-Colors with an expression of mild distaste, then straightened her spine while clasping her hands in front of herself. She was of middle age, her black hair bound in a long braid down her back. Her robe was very simple, solid blue but belted with a golden sash embroidered with silver script.

“ That heretic is no longer a priest,” she said coldly, narrowing her eyes. “It figures that he would have outlander 'friends.' What do you want him for?”

The ordinator arrived then, and J'hazarr felt the mer's presence looming in the doorway as much as heard him. The ordinator had stopped, hand on the hilt of a shortsword, seeing that a priest was speaking to the strange outlanders. He was ready to intervene if necessary.

“ I don't know what you're speaking of,” J'hazarr said slowly. “I haven't seen Serjo Urithas in months.” _ Great. Now this lady's gonna think I'm involved in whatever bullshit he must have been excommunicated for. _ “I did some work for him off the books, hunting down and destroying Daedric artifacts...”

“ It's always Daedra with you lot, isn't it? If you haven't come to honor the Tribunal, you have no business here. Please leave.” The priestess met the eyes of the ordinator over J'hazarr's shoulder before she turned away to light more candles in a hollow in the wall, moving stiffly and watching them still from the corner of her eye. J'hazarr exhaled audibly and rolled his eyes as he turned to face the approaching guard.

“ Sorry, Two-Colors. It looks like we're stuck in this stupid city for a while longer,” he muttered.

“ You look to be lost,  _ betmer. _ I don't mind escorting you both out.” The ordinator's voice was a rough growl, and he jerked his head to indicate the door. His hand was still on the hilt of his weapon. The entire room had gone silent and every pair of eyes were definitely staring at them now.

“ One does not want any trouble, Muthsera,” Two-Colors squeaked, in her smallest and most terrified voice and her thickest Marsh imitation. “One is going away quickly, yes, yes.” She reached over to tug at J'hazzar's free gauntlet, head down. Inwardly she seethed, old resentment churning in her gut. She couldn't believe she had ever thought J'hazarr was like these people, with their ceremonies and their narrow stupid ways and their looking down their long noses at anybody who wasn't them. She'd been so blind and arrogant when they met.

_ Right, and you're so humble now. Let's not get too high up our moral silt strider yet. _

J'hazarr felt like he'd been dropped into a dream without realizing he was asleep. First was the priestess with her strange accusation, and now Two-Colors had become a groveling idiot. J'hazarr had never bowed to Dunmer racism – he'd roll his eyes at them and go away when they insisted, but no one had ever been stupid enough to physically attack him. The way Dunmer treated him never really made J'hazarr angry, either, just mildly annoyed. But now he  _ did  _ feel a seething anger. J'hazarr's cheek twitched as he glared at the ordinator. His entire body had gone rigid, hairs standing up on his tail.

_ Will a fight be worth it? You are surrounded by mages and ordinators. If you get arrested you can count on the sword being confiscated.  _ J'hazarr's shoulders sank as he let the tension go. His tail flicked once, and he closed his fingers around Two-Colors' hand before moving along with her to the door. He ought to have said something, but he didn't. That fury, that  _ shame  _ burned him from the inside out with every step he took, with every passing moment that moved him further away from his failure to defend them both.

The ordinator followed and waited in the hall, watching to be sure they actually left. J'hazarr let go of Two-Colors' hand to open the door to the outside.

“ I'm sorry,” he muttered. _ I'm sorry that this is what life is like for you.  _ His voice was flat.

Outside the air was fresher, not so smothered in sanctity. Two-Colors breathed deeply of it. She could feel J'hazarr shaking in his armor, trembling in actual rage, something that had never happened before, and it disturbed her. She waited until the door was shut behind them, then huffed air out through her nostrils, eyes narrowing.

“ Why should you be sorry? It's them. It'll always be them – fuck, are you all right?” She realized belatedly how dead his voice sounded. She turned to stare up into his face, reaching a hand back to his arm without even thinking about it. “Come on, let's get out of here. Tell me and I'll get us there.”

“ I'm fine,” he said tiredly, not looking at her face as he started moving across the plaza toward the steps at a pace she could easily keep up with. He didn't know where they could possibly go from there. He didn't have a relationship with any merchants in this city, didn't know who could be trusted not to try to screw him if he tried to trade in the sword.

It wasn't until they were halfway down the steps to the lower tier of the canton that J'hazarr became aware of rapid footsteps and a female voice calling out behind them in a hushed voice.

“ Serjo! Sera! Please wait.” A young priestess was trotting after them. J'hazarr immediately recognized her as one who had been in the Temple. He turned to watch her, glaring coldly, but his face softened when he realized her expression was apologetic more than anything else. She lifted her robe from the ground as she came down the stairs, then stopped several steps above them to catch her breath.

Two-Colors watched her without much expression, trying to gauge whether groveling would get them out of being arrested or this was something else. She kept quiet as the woman talked to J'hazarr, tail uncurling slightly from around her right calf as she looked from one to the other.

“ Please,” the Dunmer panted. “I overheard your conversation. I was never close to Serjo Urithas, but I don't abide by the intolerance of today's Temple. Vivec would never have wanted for him to lose his home over his beliefs.”

“ Lady, I really don't know what any of this is about. Whatever Nelvil did, we’re not involved in it.”

“ I'm not accusing you of anything,” the priestess said quickly, waving her hand to cut him off. She continued to speak, urgent and hushed, after glancing behind to make sure she hadn't been followed. “Nelvil was part of a new group of dissidents who believe the power of the Tribunal is waning. They claim that Daedric cultists are organizing themselves, that something terrible is going to happen soon and that the Gods will not be able to stop it. It's pure foolishness of course, but persecuting people for their beliefs–”

The woman was shaking her head in disgust, but J'hazarr's blood suddenly ran cold as he recalled Hlanis's words, his eyes suddenly seeing past her. T _ he cults are growing more careful, J'hazarr. Dagon's in particular. _

“ Where is he now, do you know?” J'hazarr blurted. The priestess hesitated, glancing from one to the other.

“ ...I don't believe you'll hurt him. Slandering the Tribunal is a serious crime, so he was forced to flee or face arrest. I know that wasn't his intent, but – never mind. He's been hiding out below St. Olms. Please tell me you are really a friend of his, Serjo.”

J'hazarr followed her gaze, turning to look behind himself at the neighboring canton. St. Olms was one of the purely residential cantons of Vivec.  _ Below  _ St. Olms meant the sewer.

“ I'm a friend,” he said, turning back to her. “I promise I won't tell anyone where he is. I thank you for this information, Sera.”

“ And I'm sorry for the way you were treated,” the Dunmer said, clasping her hands in front of herself and bowing to them both. “Vivec shows mercy to all, and the Dunmer people ought to remember this.”

“ Thank you, Sera,” Two-Colors said softly, still putting on the accent a little for consistency's sake, but not as aggressively for J'hazarr's.

She didn't really believe in mercy in general, or she would have said so a week ago. It was just another word for humiliating someone when they were already down because it was convenient for you not to kill them yet. But... J'hazarr had shown mercy. Or she would not be alive. And he hadn't done it to humiliate her; he'd never acted as if he had the slightest inkling how she felt or wanted to make her feel worse. Hells, he hadn't been able to tell when she had a head injury until she fell over.

_ But he knew there was something wrong last night. Last night he was paying attention, like it mattered to him.  _ She felt a warm feeling in her chest and stomach for a second until she remembered she'd also been prattling like a cretin. That was a draft of cold water down the back, and she dipped her head politely toward the priestess and turned away.

“ So we're headed down again,” she said. “You want to try and get rid of the sword before, or after?”

She spoke very quietly, for his ears only.

"Too bad we can't get anything of his. I might be able to follow his scent by it."

J'hazarr's face was set in a deeply contemplative frown as he turned to continue down the steps.

“ St. Olms is right there,” he said, nodding to one of the nearest cantons. “We might as well worry about that first and the sword after. It seems doubtful Nelvil can do anything to help us now, if he's a political outcast, but this talk of the Daedric cultists being organized... It doesn't sit well with me. I have to find out what exactly is going on here. Hopefully this won't entail you needing to swim through shit.” His smile at that was weak and unhappy as they crossed the plaza toward the bridge to St. Olms.

“ Eh, could be worse,” Two-Colors said. She did not enjoy the prospect, but she didn't quail at it, either. “Maybe he can at least tell us what's going on so we'll know how to get rid of the Dagon people before the giant goon in the armor catches up again. Gimme a second, though, I'm not going down there on an empty stomach.”

“ Now, hold up –” But Two-Colors was already gone. She ducked behind a passing Dunmer as they crossed the bridge and seemed to vanish. J'hazarr resigned himself to awaiting her return, vaguely anxious as he watched for signs of trouble that never came. He could at times pick out her three-toed feet from among the others, but otherwise she was very hard to see in the crowd as she quietly circulated, dipping a hand into a pocket here, into a loosely-hanging purse there. She even lucked out and found a food vendor looking the other way in time to grab a couple of pasties off the edge of a tray. There were ordinators in the crowd, gold-masked, ever-glaring, but she was shorter than most Dunmer, dull-colored with her dark upper scales, hard to pick out. There was no outcry after her in the couple of minutes before she returned to J'hazarr with her pockets full of coin and a pasty in each hand.

“ Here, I think they're scrib,” she said, offering him one.

He took the pasty from her with a wry smile and no hesitation.  _ Why did you ever worry? She was looking out for herself for years before you showed up, remember? _

“ Beats the hells out of old jerky and soapy bathwater, I'm sure,” he said, and if J'hazarr had had any moral reservations about eating stolen food – which he didn't – they would be gone with the first warm bite. He ate slowly, savoring every bite as they made their way through the crowd. Part of him was still shaken from the encounter in the Temple, but years of bottling up strong emotions allowed J'hazarr to tamp down his anxieties. He would worry when he had concrete information to act on instead of rumors.

They made their way first to the St. Olms waistworks, which were nearly identical to the hall in which they had slept. J'hazarr unhooked a lantern from a beam on the low ceiling as they progressed down the stairs – they would need it, in the sewer. It was flimsy, made of yellow paper, with no ornamentation. More expensive lanterns would have been stolen.

They had to step over a beggar wrapped in a tattered blanket as they moved through the hall of fountains, both glad they had finished their pasties before smelling that. Two-Colors was pretty sure the man was dead. One of the very short list of dead people she had seen before she left Balmora for the first time had been a Dunmer who had choked on his own vomit in an alley after having too much skooma, and you never forgot that underlying stench. She definitely didn't plan to stop and check. They moved instead to a trap door with a rusty pull ring, the entrance to the sewer. It was wood covered in chipped plaster, the surface slick with moisture. Muck-and-rat-shit footprints were all over the floor nearby. This door saw lots of use.

“ Here we go,” J'hazarr said, and threw open the heavy door with one hand. Two-Colors choked for a second, clamping her nostrils shut against the horrible mingled odors from below. This wasn't the canalworks, where only water from kitchens or baths ended up to be recycled. This was the stench of shit, so many kinds of shit in so many stages of decay. There were dead things down there. There was old food that had not passed through a body before it went bad (and old food that had only partly completed that journey). There were almost certainly live rats, big ones. It was worse than Balmora. There were so many more people here, which meant so much more of all the refuse people created.

Below them a rickety-looking ladder stretched into the dark. It was nothing but a rusty old pole with short spurs sticking out from alternate sides, and for a moment J'hazarr seriously doubted its ability to hold his weight.

“ Damn it all,” he muttered, and cast his feather spell. A soft pink light fluttered across his armor and winked out, and J'hazarr was suddenly floating. At least, that's what it felt like. The big sword in his hand seemed to weigh nothing. He was so used to the weight of his armor that he normally didn't really notice it, but now he was aware of the steel seeming to lift away from his shoulders. J'hazarr left the lantern on the floor and went down first, going quickly and easily even with one hand occupied. His plate rattled when he dropped to the floor, and he held up his hand to take the lantern from Two-Colors.

J'hazarr's foot hit something that clacked against the floor as it rolled away, an empty bottle that probably once held skooma or cheap beer. He could hear the distant sloshing noises of something swimming through the green-brown river of dreck.

Two-Colors gradually scissored her nostrils open bit by bit as she climbed down, testing each step – she'd seen J'hazarr cast a spell, so she wasn't perfectly sure it would even hold her weight. You got a little stunned to the cocktail of awful after a couple of minutes. It didn't stop being awful, but it stopped being actively nauseating.  _ You've done it before. You know the drill. At least you're walking and not swimming.  _ Being barefoot down here was a special kind of disgusting, but again, it wasn't really new, she reminded herself.

“ Ugh,” she whispered. “Hanging around you I've gone all soft. I almost forgot what this was like.” She squinted around, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The circle of light that the lantern created seemed weak and tiny, a pinpoint in a sea of horrid blackness.

The sewers in Vivec were a latticework of intersecting tunnels, brick walls supporting plaster-over-brick domed ceilings. The walkways were wide, while a narrow channel cut through the center. Very thin bridges crossed over the channel at regular intervals. The walls were disgustingly slick, the ground discolored by patches of bodily fluids that had dried without being cleaned up, and soggy lumps of what J'hazarr hoped to be discarded clothing lay here and there. It wasn't his first time in a sewer and it was unlikely to be his last, but J'hazarr always hated these places more than any other.

“ I was born in this place. I'll never forget it,” J'hazarr said in a low, toneless voice. He picked up the lantern and began moving along the walkway, cautiously stepping around the glistening piles of refuse. 

Two-Colors winced. Right. Easy to forget the Ohmes-raht beside her had never been born in the sense that she had been born, never been a baby, never been a little boy. He'd told her so, and she believed it, but it was still hard to take in and keep in the idea that he had sprung from nothing as a grown mer with someone else's memories. Maybe it was hard for him too. Maybe it had always been.

J’hazarr knew from past experience that there were many old, unused chambers down here. They'd originally been intended to be used as storage vaults but had since been taken over by criminals and religious outcasts who used these places to worship in secret. There might be other people lurking about down here, but Nelvil would probably be the only one who didn't stink of drugs or filth. Probably.

The tunnel seemed to stretch into an infinite dark, the drips echoing from further down the only real indicator of the scale of the sewers. J'hazarr stopped at the first junction of canals and held the lantern low as he squinted into the darkness, but his night vision was only marginally better than the average mer. He could not tell if the black shape further down was a doorway or the mouth of another tunnel, so he started off in that direction to check it out.  Two-Colors padded after him, feet silent in the echo of the steel boots. After a while she could hang back just out of the lantern light, watching ahead where to step. To a very alert person the reflection of her eyes might appear in his armor, not much more. In the dark, with her head down, she was very hard to see.

 

* * *

Rullus descended the temple steps slowly, frowning inside his helm.

“ Clearly he found no help here,” murmured Adrian.

“ No. Apparently he has not the reputation here that he has in Ald'ruhn. It is a much larger temple. I suppose it is not surprising.”

“ Y'don't say. And the nearer you are to Vivec the less they like betmer, one hears.”

“ Hm. I don't know that I like this continent, Adrian,” Rullus rumbled in his chest as they slowly crossed the bridge back toward St. Olms. The crowd parted around the enormous armored body of the Imperial, and Adrian kept slightly behind his left shoulder, taking advantage of the additional space.

“ Unusual for you to express an opinion, old chap,” the Breton said, casting a bleary gooseberry-colored eye up at his companion.

“ I suppose it is. And now we've got to find out where he went, and I don't imagine anyone here is likely to be helpful.” He hefted the bag on his back. “We do have something of his. I believe stained with his blood, in fact.”

“ Ah,” Adrian said. “So, the nearest cornerclub, then?”

“ I suppose if we choose a beggar at random they may be too high on skooma to have the proper use of their nose,” Rullus said.

“ Just so. And I think we could each do with a drink.”

Rullus grunted agreement. He hoped his legs would soon become accustomed to the long, steep hikes up and down from the canton levels, but at the moment they remained an annoyance. It took considerable inquiry and exchange of coin to even find someone who would admit alcohol was bought or sold in the virtuous cantons adjoining the Temple, but eventually they found themselves in the canalworks in a dingy corner, in front of a lot of stacked crates set up at right angles to form a rough bar. It was dark, even the bar itself lit only by a couple of blue lanterns, and even to human nostrils it smelled of mildew and wet clay (the undertone of piss and skooma mostly escaping them). Behind it stood a middle-aged Dunmer in gray homespuns that had probably once been blue, a red scarf tied sloppily around his shaved hair, always twitchily tapping one finger on the bar-top. There were no tables. There were more crates set up around giant spools that had once held chain or cable.

Rullus chose to stand near the bar with his suspicious-smelling mazte rather than crush one by trying to sit on it. The place felt simultaneously cramped and exposed, but he recognized the reason for the lack of attempt at delineating walls: if anyone heard an ordinator coming, if ordinators ever bothered coming down here, the bartender could grab their more valuable liquors and run off, and the patrons could scatter with great ease, knocking everything over until it was just piled garbage. Adrian leaned on the crates beside him, looking considerably more relaxed than Rullus as he cupped his hands around what was allegedly brandy but was almost certainly a mixture of greef, shein, and Dunmer piss.

The few patrons paid no attention to them beyond a cursory glance at the valuable armor, long enough to determine trying to get it off him wouldn't be worth a broken everything. Finally Adrian gulped down most of his drink – Rullus suppressed a wince inside his helm – and sauntered over to a spool at which sat a short gray Khajiit in nothing but a pair of linen trousers. His fur might actually be white under the film of dinge. His eyes were certainly pale red; it would not be surprising to find an albino lurking down here where the sunlight never reached. He had a scruffy tail about three inches long sticking out between shirt and trousers, always twitching, and his ears were tufted on top and seemingly at permanent half-mast.

“ You want to make a hundred septims?” the Breton asked without preamble. The Khajiit looked up at him, then snorted.

“ Khajiit does not do that kind of work. Go away.”

“ I mean tracking a scent. Possibly through the sewers. It won't be easy work, but we're willing to pay well, and we'll cover your meals.”

“ Is this likely to attract official attention?” he asked suspiciously. “Khajiit is easy to recognize. Does not want trouble with the shiny-headed assholes upstairs.”

“ It's nothing to do with them,” Adrian said. “And they've no reason to care. We're looking for an Ohmes-raht who poisoned a village in Cyrodiil. We know he's somewhere in Vivec and we know he was at the Temple canton last, but we can't trace him from there. We have something of his with his scent.”

“ Khajiit cannot go out in the sun like this.” He waved a hand at his pants. The claws were not retracted, perhaps were not able to be. “You will buy him a robe to cover his head, yes.”

“ I have one you can have,” Adrian said. “Black silk, rough. Nice and inconspicuous for you to keep later.”

“ Show.”

Adrian went back to Rullus to get the robe from his bag and bring it back to the Khajiit, unrolling it to hold up. The betmer fingered the fabric, then sniffed it.

“ All right, Breton has deal. You give J'sajo half up front.”

“ Not a chance, old fellow. The robe is worth that much on its own,” Adrian said firmly. “Come on. We're burning daylight.”

The Khajiit grunted and shrugged, and got up to put the robe on as Adrian waved Rullus over.

“ We have a tracker. Let's go.”

 

* * *

Favise knew before they even reached Vivec that J'hazarr was lost. She suppressed her anger with herself, with the swordsman. Dwelling on anger was a waste of her mental energy. She and the cocky warrior – not so cocky now, with a new scar on his face and his sword lost – searched every hostel and arms dealer in the Hlaalu canton they could find. There was no sign of J'hazarr. She knew the betmer were more likely to be hiding out in the underworks, but it would take days for two people to search an area that large by themselves. It was time they didn't have.

They repeated the same process in the Foreign Quarter, hoping that the men from Cyrodiil might be found at the Three Lanterns inn. They were not, and by then it was too late to visit the Temple.

In the morning Favise lead her ally to the St. Delyn canton to check in with an agent of the Mythic Dawn, to report their failure before continuing a likely fruitless search.

Gragas Darethi was a small, unassuming old man who answered his door slowly, leaning on a cane. Favise had never met him, but she had memorized the names and addresses of contacts in every major city in Morrowind. His tiny apartment was right off the main walkway, a single room divided by paper screens and a curtained alcove that likely served as a bathroom. The scent of inks and paints permeated his home – he appeared to be a calligrapher by trade. Paper lanterns of all sorts and sizes cluttered every bit of table space, while decorative scrolls hung in rows upon the walls. All of the screens in his home were beautifully ornate, the panels alternating between black and gold paintings of the Tribunal and written blessings.

The plaster on the walls was cracking, but the apartment was otherwise very clean and inviting. It smelled faintly of incense and saltrice flour beneath the ink.

“ I received a message about you,” Gragas said after Favise's curt explanation of all that had happened, shuffling behind a screen to his sleeping area. He spoke in a grandfatherly sort of way that might have put Favise at ease if she were younger and stupider. She barely felt the discharge of magicka as he unlocked some sort of chest in the other room before returning to the dining area, the only place with chairs for his visitors to sit on. His clasped hands were held close to his chest. He uncovered his palm as he held it out to Favise, revealing two spiny black rings with glimmering inlays of fiery script. She felt their fervid throb of power without even touching them herself.

“ If these were to fall into enemy hands...” Favise said, hesitantly raising her hand to accept the gift. Gragas held his thumb over one of them, so Favise took the other. Touching it felt like a static shock at first, and then it was a heavy weight in her palm. She could feel that the ring housed a spell of summoning, but this was no simple shield or dagger. This summon had to be an immortal being, an incredibly powerful one.

“ But you won't let that happen,” he said, face wrinkling up as he smiled. Gragas held out the other ring to the swordsman. “To replace the loss of your sword, my friend. I am loaning these rings to the two of you, you understand. When your mission is completed I must have them back. Well, go on, Sera. Narshavek is one of our liaisons with the Destroyer himself. If he cannot help you find this betmer you seek, I suspect no one can.”

Favise's fingers tightened around the ring. There were not many things that could make her pulse jump, but the idea of meeting a daedric servant of Mehrunes Dagon was one of those things. She steeled her face as she pulled off her glove to slip the ring onto a finger of her right hand. Energy rippled across her body as black metal met her skin, as the magicka of the ring touched her own. The summoning enchantment was an alien presence but it was also part of her.

“ I call Narshavek,” she said, drawing on the magicka of the ring as she spoke the words. A hot wind pressed against her face, tearing at her hair and her clothes, and Favise blinked rapidly but did not cringe away as the bands of black and crimson magicka unfurled around a dark form before her. The crimson faded to black and swirled like smoke around the creature's feet before dissipating. Although every inch of his body was covered in daedric steel, Favise knew it must be a dremora. He towered over Gragas Darethi, at least six feet tall, and when he spoke his voice was a perfect match to the snarling face molded into his helm.

“ Filthy mortal worm!” Narshavek growled, stepping toward her and reaching for his longsword.

“ Stop,” Favise said and stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. The dremora did stop, hand on the hilt of his weapon, but he continued to growl. Favise fancied she could feel his hateful glare boring into her. That voice was horrid, like rusty metal scraping against metal, like many guttural voices all shrieking at once.

“ I am your master now. You will obey me,” Favise said evenly, holding up her palm to show him the ring. She was proud of her own composure. She wasn't shaking, but  _ he  _ was, quaking visibly with rage as he withdrew his hand from the weapon. She could smell the stench of the creature, like blood and sulphur, but it was so much sharper,  _ fresher _ , than the scent of her summoned equipment.

“ Pray you never find your way to the Lord's realm. If I ever see you there, mortal insect, I will strangle you with your own intestines and leave your flesh for the maggots.”

“ That's very creative,” Favise said, dropping her hand and straightening herself, looking up into the eyes of his helm with a cold, impassive gaze. “Our Lord has commanded me to end the life of a Khajiit named J'hazarr. Do you know him? Or where he has gone?”

“ Yes,” the dremora growled. “I am Valkynaz. Lord Dagon speaks to me directly, while his voice would melt  _ your  _ pitiful eyes. This mortal you seek is in the place of shit and water below St. Olms. Disgusting. Your infestation of this world will soon come to an end.”

Favise's eyes snapped to Ulien.

“ We have to hurry! Narshavek, dismissed.” She waved her hand at him and the dremora collapsed with a growl into a cloud of black smoke. Favise was already yanking the glove back over her hand and speaking quickly while moving to the door, where she had left her pack. “Thank you, Muthsera Darethi. We will have your rings back to you in due time.”

 

* * *

J'sajo hesitated in the doorway to the outside walkway from the waistworks, pulling the hood close around his face, tucking his hands into the sleeves. He looked like a very devout monk by the time they were in actual sunlight, and even then Rullus was sure he saw the Khajiit flinch. He walked a little oddly, steps short to keep his feet out of the sun as much as possible, but Adrian's old robe helped with that; it had been hand-tailored for someone a good six inches taller than J'sajo. In one hand he held a scrap of bloody fabric Adrian had cut from the bedroll for him.

He padded to and fro at the entrance to first one bridge on the Temple side, then the other, as Rullus and Adrian waited nearby, trying to look devout and inconspicuous. An ordinator had just finished telling them to move along when J'sajo came back.

“ Back to St. Olms, yes,” he said. “Waste of this one's time to come all the way back. One suspects they are underneath where you found him. Lucky they are that J'sajo's nose is good enough to track one person through the stench of shit.”

“ Very lucky indeed,” Adrian said, blithely ignoring any possible hint for additional payment. Rullus just grunted agreement.

What was he going to do when they caught up to J'hazarr?

_ Kill him. That has never changed. _

_ What about the girl? _

_ What about her? She was all right before she met him, she'll be all right when he's gone. We're not going to hurt her in any permanent way. _

_ You're assuming she doesn't care about him at all, you realize that. _ His mind tried to dodge away from any such admission as he followed J'sajo back through the busy waistworks, ignoring the stares of the poor and virtuous, but Rullus knew it to be true. She did care about him, or she would not have stayed with him after she was wounded by the two Dunmer. Wounded badly enough to lose an inconvenient amount of blood. She'd been willing to risk that to stay with J'hazarr.

He couldn't be the cause of depriving someone of a loved one. Not deliberately. Not knowingly.

_ Come now. They've only traveled together a couple of days. _

_ But she stayed. _

That niggling thought continued to trouble him as they wound their way down the stairs and, inevitably, back through the roaring canalworks, until they finally came to the reeking trapdoor. J'sajo pushed back his hood, tufted gray-white ears flat.

“ Down here,” he said.

 

* * *

They were halfway to the door, now, and J'hazarr could see clearly enough that it was  _ indeed  _ a door in a stone frame. A glass lantern was hanging from an iron hook on the wall beside it, unlit. As they came closer, Two-Colors noticed the scent of several Dunmer in good health, both male and female, who had passed through in recent weeks, although they had come from the other direction. There was no scent of drugs, but rather of dried foods and clean linens.

“ More than one Dunmer's been here,” Two-Colors whispered. “Not addicts, in good shape, clean clothes. So it's either your friend and his buddies or it's some very low-rent cultists.”

J'hazarr smiled thinly into the dark.

“ Either of those possibilities is fine with me,” he whispered back. Then he paused to lean the sword against the wall while he carefully lit the hanging lantern from the flame of his own. If a fight should break out, J'hazarr preferred not to be blinded if their only light got damaged. He passed the paper lantern back to Two-Colors.  She accepted the light reluctantly, intimately aware of how visible she was compared to the darkness around them. The little scales on the back of her neck stood away slightly as she felt sure that she felt eyes on her, lots of little eyes from out of the dark, from out of the horrible water.  _ Don't be a stupid infant. You're not afraid of rats. You've EATEN rats. _

J’hazarr ran his fingers across the iron pull ring – there was no prickle of magicka beneath his palm, so he grasped the ring and pushed. The door opened just a crack before thunking against something woody on the other side. He could see through the crack that the inside was dark, but no stench of decay came wafting out. As Two-Colors had said, whoever was living here was clean and had kept the place clean.

“ It's barricaded,” J'hazarr said in a low voice. “I guess we'll just have to knock and hope the occupants are friendly.” He rapped on the door with his fist. Something in the darkness behind them skittered away from the noise and plooshed into the water.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then a voice from close to the door on the other side said,

“ Have you been fishing?” It was androgynous from the muffling effect of the door, but it sounded rough enough to be Dunmer.

“ Um,” J'hazarr said slowly, hand closing around the hilt of the glass sword. “I'm a friend of Nelvil Urithas. I'm not an ordinator or anything like that.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  _ Yeah, that sounded plausible. _ “My name is J'hazarr. Ask him, he knows me.”

 

* * *

“ Trail is not cold,” J'sola whispered. “Argonian has bled recently and is not healed.” He glanced unreadably back over his shoulder, red eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. His footpads were nearly silent. He had stopped to wrap them in rags before they climbed down. “If this Ohmes-raht is dangerous they should arm themselves soon.”

Adrian had cast up his accounts not far from the ladder, not that anyone would ever notice that someone had thrown up into the sewer channel. He'd had a swig from a hip flask into whose contents Rullus had not inquired because he was too busy trying not to vomit himself. The urge had gradually faded as his nostrils became partly inured to the stench. Not completely, unfortunately. Not enough.

Rullus reached up to draw his sword slowly. Beside him he heard the softer swish of Adrian's rapier leaving its sheath.

“ Just stand out of the way, when we're in sight of them,” Rullus whispered. “They are indeed dangerous people, and there is no reason for you to risk injury.”

“ Indeed there is not,” J'sola whispered back dryly. He turned back to continue moving forward, then slowed as they rounded a shallow bend and saw a distant light – a lantern hung on a doorway, and another lantern in the hand of a small figure with a long muzzle and a fat, tapering tail.

Behind the door there was a conference which Two-Colors could not hear except as distant, indistinct whispering. Instead she heard the sound of distant, approaching footsteps. Firm, solid ones. As of a man wearing a great deal of heavy armor.

“ Fuck. J'hazarr,” she hissed at him, grabbing at his non-sword arm.

J'hazarr turned and blinked into the darkness. He could see nothing – whoever it was was still too far from the light – but he too could hear the heavy footsteps. In any other circumstances he might have tried to hide, but the other person or persons could certainly see them under the dim light.

“ Who's there?” he barked, slapping down his visor, submerging himself in even greater darkness. The whispering voices from within the chamber abruptly quieted. He stepped forward, arm held out to one side to interpose himself between Two-Colors and the newcomer. 

“ You know who it is,” said a familiar resonant baritone. As he walked purposefully closer the dim light gleamed on the massively broad outline of the ebony cuirass and pauldrons, on the blade of the orcish longsword. Someone in a black robe, almost invisible except as a pair of glowing red eyes, was just fading back behind him. The Breton stood slightly behind and to his left, white skin almost glowing in the darkness, whisper-thin rapier in his hand.

“ You can run from me, but you will never be able to hide.”

“You again,” hissed Two-Colors, backing up, hand on the shockbite dagger. Her heart thudded in her ears. She could easily escape. Neither human could probably even swim for long in the awful dreck, let alone pursue her through it. But then J'hazarr would be facing two men alone -

“ I will stay back as long as you do, young lady,” the Breton was saying in a drawling accent that had come from somewhere far, far from here. “So I strongly suggest you play fair.”

Ice water ran through J'hazarr's veins, his heart thundered against his ribcage. The Imperial had come again. The darkness of the sewer became a cold and slithery living thing that pressed down against him. The voice of guilt hissed at him from the shadows. 

_ You killed his wife. You killed his unborn child. How can you ever take his life? _

_ I have to! I have to do it! I want to live! I have to protect Two-Colors! _

_ I almost died last time. I have no more potions. Can I really best Rullus alone? And how can I trust that his two cronies here won't take over if he falls? _

_ He uses magicka resist. What can I possibly do against his greater strength? _

_ Knock him in the water and he'll sink like an anchor. But how do I move a mountain? _

These thoughts flashed through J'hazarr's mind lightning-fast. Rullus only had time to take two more steps before J'hazarr had made his decision.

“ Don't wait for me,” he hissed to the Argonian and broke into a sprint, first angling himself toward the wall so that the man stood between J'hazarr and the channel of foul water. Magicka spiraled out around his legs, wrapping him in a faint ribbon of light that lit the sewer for a brief flash. Then J'hazarr kicked off against the wall, letting his jump spell propel him like a croquet ball struck with Stendarr's hammer. With one hand on the glass blade and the other on the hilt, he held the sword across his head and upper body like a shield as he hurtled toward the Imperial. Magicka flashed out from his hands again, a deep violet that shimmered across his sword, over his armor and down to his boots.

J'hazarr was suddenly three times his own weight. The burden he cast on himself would last only a few seconds; all of his magicka had been pushed into the intensity of the spell rather than the duration.

Rullus saw the Khajiit start to move, fast, gods he was fast. He raised the fist that held his shield and tapped it against his chest, and he was just finishing the spell gesture, power sinking into his bones, when the Khajiit suddenly darted to one side to kick off the wall. It was clever, trying to offset his greater weight with momentum, but there was no way the Ohmes-raht weighed enough to make it work. Rullus had time to brace one foot slightly behind the other just before he saw the violet glitter of magicka and realized something else was happening, but it was too late to do anything else about it. The Khajiit's knee hit him in the belly like a blow from an ogre's fist. The impact literally dented the ebony cuirass, drove the air from his lungs. His boots slid backward in the filth on the floor, dissipating a small amount of the impact but nearly spilling him into the foetid canal. The side of one foot was literally over thin air for an instant before he found purchase. Behind him, through the ringing in his ears, he heard the shuffle of feet as Adrian hurriedly moved back and out of the way.

Something inside him had ruptured. He could feel the throbbing agony as it started to swell, as he tried to breathe in and not throw up.

J'hazarr collapsed under his own incredible weight, hitting the ground shoulder-first and rolling onto his back, helm smacking against the ground. For a split second he was dazed while pinned beneath his crushing armor. Twinkling lights flashed in the dark beyond his visor slit; a buzz rang in his ears. Then J'hazarr was aware that he was on the ground and Rullus was not in the canal.

_ It didn't work. He's still standing! _ He felt the short duration spell fizzle away and jerked the sword over his face just as the Imperial bashed down at him with his shield, too slow. J'hazarr threw himself onto his side again to slam into Rullus's legs with his shoulder.

There was no way for Rullus to completely keep his balance. He dropped knees-down toward the Khajiit, drawing his sword arm back for an attempt skewering the Ohmes-raht through the chest as his weight came down.  _ Disengage, I have to disengage so I can heal before I bleed out internally.  _ He still felt the hot swelling agony behind his dented breastplate. In another minute he would start to feel weak.

 

* * *

Two-Colors cursed under her breath, taking a couple of rapid steps further back. _Somebody's got to keep those other two honest. We passed a bridge earlier. If I can find one further down I can circle back. The Khajiit might see me even in the dark, but it's my best chance._ She turned and ran, vaulting a channel of dreck without a second glance as her eyes searched the darkness for a second bridge.

Two-Colors finally saw the arch looming out of the darkness and skidded to a halt, nearly sliding to her knees on the slick floor. She had to take it slower crossing the narrow span. It had no guardrails and was built to accommodate one person at a time, and the surface gleamed with condensation and rot. Some kind of sli me mold or something hung from the distant ceiling in a slippery curtain that just brushed the top of her head, damp and sickening, and then she was across and heading back toward the sound of clashing armor, metal-on-metal.

Adrian stood with his back to the wall, rapier in hand, eyes searching the darkness for anything that might interrupt. If Rullus went into the canal there wasn't a damn thing he could do. Even unarmored he wouldn't be able to pull the larger man out. He had no power with which to accomplish anything else that might save a man sinking in shit and burdened by heavy metal. He hadn't trusted himself to carry magicka for years now. Bad things could happen when he was drunk. And alcohol might be killing him slowly, but potion addiction was something else again. All of it twisted his stomach, but he had to wait and trust that Rullus would come out on top, as he always did, as he always had.

He did not believe for a second that the Argonian had really run off. He wasn't sure where J'sajo had gone. The Khajiit had retreated into the darkness, and with his hood covering his glowing eyes was now invisible to human sight.

 

* * *

J'hazarr's eyes widened when he realized what hitting the man's legs had actually accomplished. He tried to roll out of the way but had only succeeded in falling onto his back when armored knees slammed into his groin and leg. His shriek echoed up and down the walls. The orcish blade smashed into his chest hard enough to dent steel, throwing up sparks before sliding away along the curvature of the breastplate. J'hazarr tried to rock his body aside to roll Rullus off but the man was far too heavy. He raised the sword in his hand instead and bashed downward, trying to hit Rullus in the head with the hilt.

J'hazarr was too absorbed in the fight, too deafened by the fading ringing in his ears, too distracted by the shooting pain in his groin and in his head to notice the voices raised in argument beyond the barricaded door.

Rullus heard the Khajiit's scream, though in the place where he now was it gave him no satisfaction, only the grim determination to finish what he had started. He had spoken truly to J'hazarr back on the road to Vivec. He had long known there was no joy, no relief in what he was trying to do. There was only dull, plodding anger and the certainty that it must be done.

He started to draw the sword back for another attempt, still kneeling with most of his weight on the Ohmes-raht, toes barely braced against the floor, and then the glass hilt hit the forehead of his helm just above the visor slit and knocked his head back. The helmet clacked into his gorget, preventing him from really hurting his neck, but he fell heavily back into a sitting position, spots forming in front of his eyes. They didn't go away. The pain in his gut was starting to numb, not a good sign.

Rullus knew that he could heal himself, or he could try for the final blow, there wouldn't be time for both.

_ If I lose consciousness I will die. Adrian has no way to heal me. J'hazarr will go free. _

He tried to roll back up to his knees, raising his shield as he tapped the hilt of the orcish blade against his chest. A blue glow briefly lit the sewer around him in a small circle as power spiraled out from his fist and sank into his body. The relief was immediate and complete: pain in his head, pain in his belly gently faded to nothing as he healed.

 

* * *

Two-Colors crossed the other bridge much more slowly, step by silent step, drawing the shockbite. The Breton hadn't done anything but watch yet, and he stood with his shoulder to her and his back to the wall. That was smart, but he was watching the others with a concerned frown now. They were both on the ground. Two-Colors refused to panic at that. They were both on the ground, she could see both moving from the corner of her eye, so the fuzzy-tailed bastard wasn't dead yet. Still – if J'hazarr looked like winning she didn't trust the other human for a second. She turned the dagger in her hand, raising it slowly as she crept toward the Breton, prepared to cosh him with the hilt.

“ This is not J'sola's fight,” said a voice from behind Two-Colors. “But he thinks maybe he should not let you club the one with the money.”

Adrian turned to find the tiny Argonian with dagger hilt uplifted. He aimed a clumsy kick at her, forcing her to dodge back.

Two-Colors spun, cursing, to find the black-robed Khajiit standing a couple of yards away. She had been able to smell that he was nearby, but not even she could find exact position in the fug of stench from just a scent. He had not drawn a weapon. His hands were still tucked into his sleeves.

 

* * *

J'hazarr rolled away and pushed himself up as soon as Rullus was off him. He was now aware of a muffled clanking about, wooden furniture being shoved aside. The arguing voices had grown furious enough to penetrate his consciousness.

_ We could run away. _

J'hazarr whirled around and stabbed at Rullus's helm. He knew the man would just block him. It didn't matter. J'hazarr was only hoping to knock him off balance.

_ I can't run from this bastard my entire life. This has to end! _

On his knees, Rullus saw the green blade, glittering in the dark as it darted at his visor slit. This time he leaned to his right and held up his shield to let the blow glance off it. The glass edge ploughed a furrow across the ebony, an ear-piercing metallic shriek.

“ With that blade -” he tried to bat J'hazarr away with the shield again - “you could have pierced my heart on your first hit.” His confusion showed in his voice. J'hazarr was smarter than this. He had been clever enough to come up with that first desperate gambit, and if it had succeeded Rullus might have drowned in the sewage before he could walk to a ramp.

_ Might. It was not certain. Even he knows it was not certain. And that would have tied up Adrian as well, trying to find a way to get me out again. _

“ Maybe I'd rather watch you drown in shit,” J'hazarr growled back, dancing out of reach of the shield. A loud bang rang out behind him, sending a chill down J'hazarr's spine –  _ Two-Colors! _ – until he realized the door had been thrown open.

“ Stop!” cried a graveled Dunmer voice. The others beyond the door had grown silent. J'hazarr risked a quick backward glance when he was out of the Imperial's reach and saw that it was Nelvil Urithas who came trotting out toward them, throwing out his arm at the combatants, waving at them to stop. His white linen robe was cleaner than a mer had any right to be in a place like this, a golden sash tied neatly around his waist, unadorned cloth shoes squelching through the filth. He was thinner, more haggard than J'hazarr remembered the mer, his once long black hair shaved down to short fuzz. He was followed by a person of medium build in netch armor, their sex obscured by a black mantle that covered their torso and a cloth mask over nose and mouth. A swath of gray skin and red eyes were the only part of their face left exposed below a leather cap.

More importantly, the person carried a wooden crossbow primed with a steel quarrel. The head of the quarrel crackled with electric-white magicka, the shadows in the sewer stretching long and dancing in the light of it. J'hazarr immediately lowered his sword and flipped open his visor so that Nelvil could see his face. He didn't want to be the one shot with that quarrel.

The crossbow had a way of drawing attention to itself. Two-Colors edged further back very slowly, one eye on J'sola, trying to put herself out of the Dunmer's line of sight. She still had the dagger in her hand, butt forward. The Khajiit was keeping quiet, but she could see he was poised on his big flat feet, ready to run away into the stinking dark.

Rullus looked up, shield raised, then paused. He was still on one knee, orcish blade in hand. He had no idea who this was but he would not attack strangers without reason. Even a steel quarrel would lose enough momentum on its way to his body that it would not seriously threaten him, even if it could get through his armor. But the enchantment might still sting enough to give J'hazarr an important momentary advantage even through his magicka resistance. And besides, there was still Adrian, whose leather cuirass would stop a steel bolt as paper would a knife.

If they were simply here to support J'hazarr they would have attacked, not spoken. He lowered his sword slowly.

“ Careful with that, friend,” Adrian said mildly, back still to the wall. Beyond a quick glance at Rullus he seemed to have no reaction.

“ It's me, J'hazarr,” the Ohmes-raht said, stepping cautiously toward the robed Dunmer, sideways so that he could keep Rullus in sight. Nelvil stopped a few feet away, not willing to come any closer to the mountain of ebony and orcish steel. The mer with the crossbow slowly circled out to keep as many people as possible within sight.

“ Who are you?” Nelvil demanded angrily of Rullus. “Cultist?! Another follower of Dagon? Get back behind me, J'hazarr, you'll be safe with us.”

J'hazarr frowned as he stepped slowly back, the tip of his tail twitching as his eyes moved between Rullus and the armed Dunmer. They didn't know that the Imperial was protected from magicka. If he wanted to Rullus could probably have killed both Dunmer and everyone else hiding inside that room. _ But he won't. You know he won't. Two-Colors will be safe with them. _

“ The Argonian is with me,” he said.

“ My name is Rullus Ennius,” said the Imperial, voice level and measured from inside his helm. “I have served the Nine Divines all my life. I pursue J'hazarr, the poisoner of Lambing Green. I have no quarrel with anyone else. I bow the knee to no daedra prince, and I wear the trophies of their followers as my witness.”

“ Adrian de Faelencourt, at your service,” the Breton said. “And I follow Rullus Ennius. The Khajiit behind me is J'sola, our hired tracker.”

Two-Colors sheathed her dagger slowly, tail hanging in an arch behind her, still poised on her tiptoes. To get to J'hazarr she would have to pass within reach of both humans. She was not yet ready to attempt it.

J'hazarr's jaw tightened, pressing his mouth into a thin frown. He was sure Nelvil would not believe the accusations of this stranger. J'hazarr had nothing to fear. Why, then, did a cold dread fill his belly at hearing those words spoken aloud?

“ You pursue the wrong man,” Nelvil said coldly. “J'hazarr has worked tirelessly in the service of the Temple for years. His cause is just. He is no murderer.”

“ Nelvil,” spoke the mer behind him, revealing herself as a woman. Her voice was smooth despite her tension and bore the traces of a Cyrodiilic accent. “We need an escort. Our time grows short. J'hazarr might be as dependable as you say, but I'd put my drakes on the big man there.”

Rullus' helm pivoted toward the other voice as he raised a crooked brow behind the visor slit. He raised one hand carefully to sheathe the orcish blade. This could still go wrong, but while words and not blows were the order of the day, his vengeance on J'hazarr could wait.  _ There is always time. _

“ Beg pardon?” Adrian said politely.

“ I'm going over there to J'hazarr,” Two-Colors said. “Don't anybody get excited.”

Rullus made a minimal gesture of his left hand from where he knelt,  _ go _ . His attention was on the masked woman with the crossbow. Two-Colors began to walk carefully past the two humans, right on the edge of the canal, as far from them as she could get.

“ We can't trust these people,” Nelvil hissed, the hem of his robe twirling around his feet as he turned briskly to face the woman. J'hazarr closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, his shoulders rising and then lowering slowly with his exhalation. He let the tip of the sword rest against the ground. The other fist curled into a ball at his side.

_ I might be able to turn them on Rullus. If they attack him, Two-Colors and I can run away in the confusion. _

_ You'd risk Nelvil's life that way? And never find out what he might know about the cultists? You know you can't do that. _

“ Nelvil,” the other mer sighed in exasperation. “We don't need to trust them. We only need someone willing to get paid for the job, someone powerful enough to do it without being killed. This may be our chance.”

“ I'm telling you, these men have to be cultists! They have no reason to attack J'hazarr otherwise! We've got to put them –”

“ They aren't,” J'hazarr hissed through clenched teeth, opening his eyes. His balled fist fell lax. “I can vouch for them. They want to kill me to settle an old score. But they aren't cultists. I have no reason to believe this man or his friends would harm an innocent person.”

Two-Colors finally gained J'hazarr's side, then stared up at him wide-eyed.  _ What the hells are you doing? _

“ I uh,” she said. “That's true, I guess. They've been chasing us for a while but they've never attacked an innocent bystander. It was a Dunmer that hurt my arm. Some Dagon-worshipper out on the road.” Her arm still hurt occasionally, and would almost certainly bleed again if she ever had to actually fight before it healed, but it wasn't distracting enough to slow her down.

“ I can heal that,” Rullus said. He was still looking at the masked woman. “May I stand?” Behind him, he heard Adrian sheathe the rapier. He had no idea where J'sola was now, and in fact the Khajiit was again invisible back in the darkness.

The Dunmer lowered her crossbow slowly and nodded toward the Argonian.

“ That's why I came to seek you out, Nelvil,” J'hazarr said. He watched Rullus warily, laying a hand on Two-Colors' healthy shoulder without thinking about what he was doing. He continued speaking without taking his eyes from the man. “I've been killing cultists for years. I've never had them attempt to assassinate me like this before – I don't even think I've left any alive to remember my face. I wanted to know if you knew anything about the cults becoming more organized.”

The two Dunmer exchanged silent glances. J'hazarr heard a creak and glanced back to see a third face, another dark elf, peering out from behind the door. She darted back inside after J'hazarr met her eyes.

“ It has begun sooner than we expected,” Nelvil said softly, looking down and running a hand over his hair. “If each of you will leave his or her weapons at the door, I will invite you inside to explain everything. It is not safe out here. Anyone could be lurking in the neighboring tunnels.”

“ Fair enough,” Rullus said. “The work is always with us.” He heaved himself onto his feet as slowly as he reasonably could.

“ J'sola would like to be paid now,” said a voice from the darkness.

“ Oh, right. Here you are.” Rullus heard the jangle of the purse as Adrian detached one of the smaller bags of a hundred septims and tossed it to the hidden Khajiit. They did not hear the sound of his footsteps retreating, but a glance back showed the glowing red eyes for a moment before their hireling turned away to vanish into the darkness.

Two-Colors silently regretted her inability to wear boots, not for the first time. They made such a handy place for hiding a small dagger. Now she'd have to just leave both knives and hope for the best. J'hazarr seemed to think these people were trustworthy, but she wasn't happy with the idea of being stuck in a small space with the armored Imperial even without his sword. She bumped her nose against the hand on her shoulder without thinking, though later she would wonder why she had done it.

Rullus extended a hand toward the Argonian, letting the ever-circulating buildup of magicka coalesce into a blue glow in his palm. It leapt from him to Two-Colors with a small hiss, like hot fat hitting a griddle.

Two-Colors looked down at her arm as she felt the crawling sensation in her flesh, magicka knitting it back together. There were places where it would never be right, leaving behind an irregular line of chipped and scarred scales, but the wound was completely closed.

“ Thank you,” J'hazarr said quietly. He did not meet the Imperial's eyes. He was watching his hands, even though he knew perfectly well the man would not attack either of them.

Two-Colors felt heat rise to her face. She was furious at Rullus that he had done something J'hazarr could not, had drawn the Ohmes-raht's attention to that fact. Her echoing thanks was muttered and perfunctory.

“ We will take you up on that,” J'hazarr said to Nelvil. He gave Two-Colors a brief squeeze and let his hand drop as he turned away for the door. He laid down his weapon first – he hadn't been able to sheath it like everyone else had. J'hazarr did not feel particularly vulnerable without it. Two-Colors  laid her daggers down reluctantly, the shockbite and the dulled steel one. Rullus gave his sword to Adrian, and the Breton laid both blades down beside J'hazarr's. 

“ Villari, come out here,” Nelvil called, and the mer J'hazarr had seen earlier came shuffling out with her head bowed and her hands clasped behind her back. She was younger, late twenties perhaps, and dressed identically to Nelvil. Her black hair was pinned in a messy bun and shiny with oil in the lantern light. Her robe and face were both smudged with grime.

“ Stand guard. Pound on the door if you see or hear anything,” the older priest instructed. She nodded and stood with her back to the wall while Nelvil held the door for the rest to file inside.

It was a large anteroom cluttered with broken furniture in the corner by the door. Tall wicker baskets with missing lids and heaps of deflated sacks filled much of the space along the walls, with a single threadbare blanket spread out in the center. Someone had left a lantern there, illuminating a book and some empty bottles strewn about. Another doorway led deeper into what was likely some sort of abandoned storehouse. J'hazarr could see a light flickering at the end of a long hall and hear the muted noises of shifting bodies, but no one else came up.

“ No deeper, please,” Nelvil said. The bowwoman brought up the rear, closing the door behind herself when everyone else was inside. Nelvil sat down on his knees on the blanket and the woman sat beside him. She removed the quarrel from the crossbow and returned it to the quiver hanging on her belt, extinguishing the light of its enchantment, and let the crossbow rest across her thighs.

J' hazarr stood by the door, crossing his arms over his chest. The high corners of the room were filthy with cobwebs and dead bugs, the cracked walls glistening with slime. The blanket on the floor looked clean enough, but he wasn't about to get comfortable.  The Imperial went to stand near the wall, between J'hazarr and the Dunmer, hands hanging at his sides. After a moment he tipped his helm back on its thong, revealing his scarred and distorted features. The cooler air was pleasant on his face. Adrian stood beside him, his long thin face impassive as he waited.

“ Ready to tell me why you're living in a sewer?” J'hazarr asked.

“ You know how the Temple is,” Nelvil sighed. “Anyone who speaks out against their dogma is labeled a heretic, never mind how loyal one may be to the Dunmer people. I  _ am  _ loyal. I have served the Tribunal faithfully and unerringly for over forty years.” His voice grew rougher with anger, but Nelvil dispelled it with a shake of his head and a hand waved in disgust. Then he settled his hands on his thighs and appeared to calm.

“ The Gods have abandoned us. Not through lack of will – I have never doubted their love for us. But their power, like all powers, begins to wane. They are dying. Sotha Sil has not been seen by mortal eyes in over ten years. Vivec no longer walks among the people. Now Almalexia is rumored to be missing. Several members of the Lady's elite guard have been exiled for speaking against her – for claiming she went mad, for claiming she has been killed by the Nerevarine. Such an absurd story cannot possibly be true, yet we hear it again and again.

“ I kept my doubts to myself until I learned of the End of Times cult. Our leader has prophesied that a great change is coming. Soon daedra will walk the land – the barriers that cage them within their own realms have already begun to erode. Soon they will be torn down completely. The ignorant will welcome these monsters as saviors, but even they will not be spared the daedra's cruelty. There is nothing we can do to stop this, J'hazarr, but we can – we  _ must  _ prepare our homes to weather the coming storm.”

Nelvil's voice rose with the intensity of his words as he spoke and his eyes, black beneath the shadow of his brows, bore through the soul J'hazarr did not possess. This was a man who vehemently believed the nonsense he was spewing. It sent a tingle down the Ohmes-raht's spine, the hairs of his tail fluffing out.  _ He's mad. Damn it all, all this just to listen to the ravings of a madmer. _

Two-Colors squinted, tail wrapped around one leg as she stood by J'hazarr.

“ You're out of your damn mind,” she said. “Sure, that's probably true about the Tribunal, but the rest of it? Why should these barriers be coming down now? What about all the other gods?”

She wasn't afraid of being denounced as a heretic by this pack of... Apparently some kind of cultist nutters.  _ Low rent. I was right the first time. _ They couldn't talk to the Temple anyway.

“ Other gods? When is the last time one of these so-called Divines intervened for the sake of mortals?” Nelvil said gruffly, glaring at the Argonian.

“ Enough, Nelvil,” the woman said, pulling down her mask to speak. A gray scar ran across her face from nose to chin, cutting a groove across both lips. Her skin was rough but not wrinkled. J'hazarr assumed she was not much older than the guard outside the door.

“ I am not a member of the End of Times cult,” she said in a calm, measured voice, looking at each of them in turn. Her hands were still on her crossbow. “I am – I  _ was  _ a Blade of the Emperor, former member of the personal guard of Crown Prince Geldall Septim. It is well known among the inner circle of the Septims that His Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, has been burdened by dreams throughout his entire life that he believes to be prophetic. It is a little known fact that the Nerevarine was brought to Vvardenfell by order of the Emperor himself, prompted by one such dream. Many of the Blades do not take his visions seriously – they consider these to be the delusions of an aging man. But Uriel Septim has saved my people from destruction at the hands of Dagoth Ur. I cannot pretend that he is only a foolish old man.

“ That is why I have come to Morrowind. In recent years, the Emperor began to describe ghastly dreams – great jaws of stone and fire will rise from the earth. Daedric armies will march upon the land. Entire cities will be razed. According to the Emperor, there is one person in all of Tamriel who can stop the destruction of our world. The Emperor never asked us to find this individual – he seemed to believe that it was hopeless to try, or that the prophecy would play out the way he saw it regardless of what anyone did. But I was curious and so I used the resources at my disposal to locate this man. He is an Argonian living here in Vvardenfell, not far from Vivec.

“ The leader of the End of Times cult has not revealed the source of his information, but you can see that Nelvil's description of the doom to come seems to match the visions of the Emperor. I did not know this at the time, when I threw my career away coming here to find this Argonian. Three of my old allies from the Blades have already been killed after attempting to help me smuggle him out of the province. These cultists – followers of Mehrunes Dagon, we believe – have become highly organized. This is not a handful of mer following an alternative religion. An  _ army  _ is being raised.”

J'hazarr held his chin up with a fist, stroking his whiskers with his thumb. His tail twitched in contemplation, hanging down between his legs and the wall.

“ Two-Colors stole, and I destroyed an artifact of Dagon before we were attacked,” he said. “It's possible they thought we were a threat to their plans.”

“ Back to the damn bracers,” Two-Colors said, covering her eyes with one hand. Hearing that the Emperor of Cyrodiil thought all this was true didn't necessarily make it so, but it was a little more credible than Nelvil and his crazy story. And while they were no army, the two Dunmer on the road had been too well-armed and too experienced to be anything but evidence for her claim.

“ You want us to help you get this Argonian out of Vvardenfell,” Rullus said. “And you would ask even though you have seen that we are deadly foes one of the other. You must believe your position to be truly desperate.” He did not sound disbelieving. He was trying to imagine the position this mer was in if she was telling the truth: bereft of those she knew, without official support, trying to find allies among these sewer-dwelling cultists.

“ But what she says has the ring of truth,” Adrian said slowly. “I'm inclined to believe her, Rullus. And even if her position is no longer official, we are loyal subjects of the Empire, you and I.”

“ Yes,” Rullus said quietly. “That is not in question.”

“ Your patriotism is truly inspiring,” J'hazarr drawled, rolling his eyes.

Rullus did not visibly react to the insult. J'hazarr had responded to him with vicious words most of the times they had met. It was all of a piece with what he knew about the betmer, one more smouldering coal to feed the sullen fire that was increasingly in danger of dying out lately.

The woman cleared her throat.

“ If you are incapable of working alongside one another then no, I will not risk the life of the most important person in Tamriel by throwing him into the middle of your feud,” she said. “But your chance of success would be higher if your two groups worked together.”

J’hazarr dropped his fist from his chin onto his crossed arms. “If a Daedric Prince wants you dead, there's nothing you can do about that,” he said flatly. “He can see every move you make. There's nowhere to run.”

“ This is true,” the Blade said, nodding slowly. “But I believe the cult is far less active in the Imperial Province. Daedra worship has historical roots here. On top of that, Vvardenfell is a safe-haven for heretics from other provinces thanks to all the leftover shrines and the lack of policing. If you can at least get him to the Imperial City, I think he'll be much safer.”

“ And where is the Argonian now?” J'hazarr asked, glancing aside at Rullus as he drummed the fingers of one hand against his vambrace. He didn't really want to be involved in any of this, but if he said so, Rullus would have no reason to keep up this truce. It was best to play along for now.

_ Wasn't your only remaining desire to send a big 'Fuck You' to the Princes? Now you can do that. You can hurt them in a real, tangible way this time. _

J'hazarr felt too weary to even care. He wanted Two-Colors to live, to find a better life in Cyrodiil. It was a shock as he realized it – he wanted something after all. It wasn't a hollow echo of desire, it was not a futile quest for a resolution he could never achieve. This was something he actually wanted more than he wanted revenge.

But now Two-Colors was all wrapped up in this bullshit, possibly permanently marked for death by Mehrunes Dagon. That wouldn't go away if J'hazarr walked.

The thought of traveling alongside Rullus felt like a piece of rusty lead sinking in his gut. J'hazarr was nauseous almost to the point of being dizzy behind his impenetrable expression. The Dunmer agent had been speaking, but he was barely paying attention. He stared at her unseeing, his tail stilled.

“ His name is Got-No-Home and he is hiding in a cave along the Eastern shore,” she replied. “Ironically, the cave system is connected to an old shrine that has completely sunk beneath the sea. There isn't much dry land inside. It's the perfect hiding place for an Argonian. Normally I'd say it would be impossible for you men to ever have a chance of finding him, but...” She looked pointedly at Two-Colors and smiled thinly.

Rullus followed her gaze to the Argonian, considering. The girl had been hurt by the Dunmer they had met on the road, though not as badly as J'hazarr had been; and J'hazarr had thanked him for healing her despite all of the other things he had said. Perhaps J'hazarr wanted to get her away from the cult as much as he wanted to save his own life.

_ No. He is an evil man and a coward and he is afraid for his own life,  _ Rullus told himself firmly. The statement that she had stolen the bracers and J'hazarr had destroyed them hinted at a strange history between the two of them, but there was no time to ask about it, and it was not his business in any case. Two-Colors mattered to him only in that she was an encumbrance to his desire to destroy J'hazarr. It would be well, he told himself, to keep that in mind.

“ The idea of fighting alongside this murderer fills me with disgust,” Rullus said. “But this is something more important than personal revenge. I will accompany you. If he chooses to do so as well, I will not attack him until our business is complete.” He glanced at that side of the room. “At no point do I intend harm to Two-Colors, if that matters to you.”

The perplexed frown Nelvil directed toward J'hazarr almost made the Khajiit laugh. He and Nelvil didn't know each other very well. Surely he must be wondering if the Khajiit he thought he knew was really a murderer after all.

“ I am inclined to go as well,” J'hazarr said, lifting one shoulder. “But the decision isn't mine alone... What d'ya say, kid? If Miss Blades here is paying our fare to the Imperial Province, I'd say that alone makes it worth it.”

“ Idrasa Saalu,” the woman said. 

“ Pleased,” Adrian said, bowing. 

“And yes,” Idrasa continued. “I'd like to charter a ship for Narsis. The longer we stay on the water, the less chance we have of being attacked. It's all marshland between Narsis and Cyrodiil. Very difficult area to track anyone in if you're not an Argonian.”

“ I was willing to go around picking plants for a year if that's what it took,” Two-Colors said to J’hazarr.  _ And pockets, but the righteousness level in this room is a little high for me to bring that out.  _ “Dive for pearls, risk the slaughterfish, hide from the – that part's not important. This seems faster. And safer, actually, if the Dagon assholes are going to be after us anyway. And we don't have to worry about running from the huge – from Rullus Ennius if we know exactly where he is. So that's however long it takes us to get to the Imperial City that we're out of the damn sewers.” She tilted her head at Idrasa. “If it means I have to go diving down a dark hole after some vagrant I'll do it.”

Rullus listened in mild amusement, if anything. He thought he knew what she had been about to say.

“ You're all in agreement? You'll help?” Idrasa asked incredulously.

“ Seems that way,” J'hazarr said. She was already climbing to her feet before he'd finished speaking.

“ I'd prefer to leave straight away if that's all right with you all,” she said quickly, moving toward the hall. “I need to get my things. I haven't got much to take.”

“ I guess the sooner we're gone the better, then,” Two-Colors said gently, peering sideways up at J'hazarr. “So the cultists don't try and track us back to you, the way Rullus did.”

Nelvil was quiet through all of his, now staring at the floor in pensive contemplation. J'hazarr didn't like that look on his face. He started to feel sick again, knowing what must be on his mind.

“ Why don't you come too?” J'hazarr asked. He felt that his voice came out a bit thick. Nelvil glanced up and smiled wanly, lips pressed into a thin line.

“ I can't abandon my people, even if they have abandoned me. I am not alone here. There are others – some of us still live in the city above. We need to spread the word about what is happening so that all of Morrowind may be prepared for it.”

J’hazarr was considering a reply for this when Rullus interrupted his thoughts.

“ Oh. I have something of yours,” the Imperial said. He had dropped things outside and hauled them in without thinking about it. Now he took up J'hazarr's bag, with the bedroll still tied on top of it, and carried it over to set at his feet. It had been set down outside, and it probably smelled, but it wasn't in any worse case than Rullus' own bag at this point.

“ Thanks,” J'hazarr said with a hint of annoyance, tilting the bag sideways to look at a questionable black smear along the side. “I think I'm going to have to burn this.”

He didn't really mean that. It wouldn't be the first time J'hazarr or something he owned had been covered in the worst filth.

“ You've been carrying that this whole time,” Two-Colors said blankly. “Good gods. If you just needed to track us you could've cut off part of the blanket.”

“ I didn't know if you needed anything from it,” Rullus explained calmly. “I want J'hazarr to die in rightful combat, not by starvation.”

“ It's only rightful combat if both parties agree and one of them wasn't ambushed on the road, idiot,” J'hazarr snapped, releasing the bag and standing up straight with his arms crossed again. He jerked his face away to stare at the wall so he wouldn't have to see the expression on Nelvil's face as he listened to this. He could feel Nelvil staring anyway, but the mer didn't say anything.

“ I didn't ambush you. Words were exchanged before I struck you on every occasion that we met,” Rullus said. “I don't pretend the contest will be fair. I've worked for fourteen years to ensure that it is not. But when you die by my hand there will be no stealth involved. No secrecy. No poison - ”

“ Stop it,” snapped Two-Colors, baring her teeth up at the Imperial, who was more than a foot taller. Her voice was high and piercing compared to either of the two men. “You don't have to throw in his face every second what the other one did!”

Adrian and Rullus both turned to stare at her.

“ The other one,” Rullus said flatly.

“ You knew he's acted completely different than the betmer who committed the murders,” she said hotly. “You knew him and Morga fell out over artifacts of Vaermina. Did you never ask yourself if maybe one of those artifacts was the Skull of Corruption?”

“ What?” Rullus said, as the bottom dropped out of the world.

“ Good gods,” Adrian said slowly. “You can't deny it would explain a great deal.”

“ The other one died five minutes after  _ my _ J'hazarr was made,” Two-Colors said. “And he ran from you for fourteen years knowing you'd never believe it. Well, who'd believe a story like that? Not a giant self-righteous asshole like you.”

J'hazarr froze, the sullen frown dropping off his face in favor of stunned astonishment. He reached out, half thinking to grab Two-Colors and pull her back, but he let his hands drop into loose fists at his sides instead.

“ That's right,” J'hazarr said, carefully scanning Rullus's face. He felt numb inside; like he'd been sucker punched in the gut and had lost all his air. Maybe he should have told Rullus from the start. Maybe the Imperial could be reasoned with. He was, ostensibly, not a cruel man.

But that look on his face now made J'hazarr ill. It was the look of a man contemplating the possibility that the last fourteen years of his life has been pissed away in vain, that his only remaining desire in this world – revenge – would be forever out of reach. J'hazarr had stolen that from him along with everything else.

“ I killed him,” J'hazarr said smoothly. The words came so easily this time, pouring from him like water. Nelvil listened with his lips pursed and brows drawn together in silent scrutiny. J'hazarr turned his eyes from Rullus to stare blankly ahead at nothing, black eyes inscrutable. “I killed him and then I killed Morga. I didn't stop there; I killed every single one of her cultist friends. You can never avenge them, Rullus. He's gone, rotted away in a sewer.”

Rullus' head snapped around to watch him as he spoke, to scrutinize every detail of his expression, every scar and pockmark on J'hazarr's face. The part of his mind that was still rational compared it with the way he had spoken back at the Inn, when he was inventing a false meeting place knowing full well that he intended to run away. He had distantly noted that first expression of shock: the Ohmes-raht genuinely had not expected Two-Colors to say what she had said.

He was aware of very little other than the Ohmes-raht as he tried to make any of that make sense. He did not know that his right hand had slowly clenched into a fist, or that he was shaking. Two-Colors literally backed up a couple of steps, reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. 

“ No,” he said, the word forced out between his clenched teeth.

Adrian de Faelencourt looked from one to the other, brows knit in sympathetic pain, hands folded in front of him.

J'hazarr saw the shaking from his peripheral vision. He couldn't bring himself to look directly at the man's face. Rullus would never know J'hazarr's deep grief for what the Imperial had lost, for the suffering he must have endured. Any words of condolence J'hazarr offered would have been worse than meaningless – they would have been obscene, inexcusable.

So he said nothing. The noncommittal lifting of his shoulders was very slight before he crossed his arms and settled back against the wall once more.  _ Believe what you will. It doesn't matter. _ He lifted his chin when footsteps approached from down the hall to see Idrasa standing in the doorway. She shouldered a pack and bedroll on one side, a crossbow sling on the other. She'd added a baldric with a steel tanto and several smaller knives. The agent immediately sensed the tension in the room and frowned as she scanned each of them.

“ If you really can't set aside your feud until the mission is completed, tell me now so I'm not wasting my time on you,” she said in clipped tones.

Rullus turned his head to look down at Idrasa, and for a moment he saw red, one corner of his mouth lifting in a feral grimace. For a moment he glimpsed a very different future. For a moment he saw the walls painted with blood. Adrian would die, shot by the crossbow; Two-Colors would die from the same fate, or her fragile bones crushed as she tried to defend J'hazarr. The Dunmer would have no chance at all. Nothing, no injury she could inflict, would stop him from simply breaking her in half. And J'hazarr himself – he might possibly get to his weapon while Rullus was busy tearing the others limb from limb. J'hazarr, or this creature carrying his face and his name, might still survive to kill him and end all of it and make everything -

“ Rullus. Rullus!” Adrian was saying, thumping on his cuirass with one fist.

\- And make everything just as pointless as it would be if all of them survived.

_ You have never been the kind of man who would do this thing. You have never lost your temper and committed an act of violence because of it. Whether he is telling the truth or not - _

_ I know that he is, damn my eyes, I know it - _

_ He will not make me something that I am not. Even if that is all that he has left me. _

Rullus looked away from them all, chest heaving inside his cuirass, lifting his pauldrons. His expression smoothed out into nothing at all in the moment before he reached up to flip his helmet forward over his face. 

“ It will not be a problem,” he said curtly. “What needs to be done will be done.” He tapped Adrian once on the back with his fist, carefully, he had learned always to be careful; and then he turned very deliberately toward the door and stopped and waited. He could not be the first to pick up a weapon. Not at this moment.

Two-Colors shut her eyes for a second, exhaling silently.  _ I'm an idiot. I have GOT to learn when to shut the fuck up. _

_ But he said - ! _

_ It doesn't matter what he said! J'hazarr doesn't lose his temper over godsdamn words! _

_ It isn't fair. _

_ It's never fair. You KNOW it's never fair. Shut up. Move on.  _

Idrasa glared accusingly at J'hazarr, perhaps suspecting he had been the one to antagonize Rullus while she was away.

“ No problem on my end,” he said stiffly, then nodded to the priest. “Good-bye, Nelvil. I don't expect that we will be seeing each other ever again.” The mer had gained his feet and backed away from Rullus, and now he stared wide-eyed at J'hazarr, one hand fisting the fabric over his heart.

“ No,” he said weakly. “I expect not.” It seemed like he had more to say, his lips parted but no words coming out, but J'hazarr picked up his soiled bag and turned away. The Khajiit flipped down his visor before he passed Rullus so he wouldn't have to see the man from the corner of his eye. He fancied he could feel pure hatred seeping out from the joints in that black armor, but Rullus Ennius was nothing if not a man of his word. Two-Colors slunk after J'hazarr with her tail curled tightly around one shin.

The Dunmer standing guard jumped when the door swung open but watched quietly while J'hazarr picked up his sword and moved out along the walkway to give the others space. To give  _ Rullus  _ space. He could hear Idrasa and Nelvil speaking quietly inside the room, bidding one another farewell before the former Blades agent came out after the rest of them.

“ Thank you, Two-Colors,” J'hazarr said quietly without looking back at her, gauging that he was out of earshot of the rest.

“ You're welcome,” she said weakly, automatically. As she sheathed the two daggers she realized belatedly what he'd said.

_ For what, for risking all our lives by accidentally breaking someone huge and heavily armored? _

_ The reason it broke him is that he believed it. He believed it because it came from me. He would not have believed it from J'hazarr. _

“ I don't know if we're better off,” she added in a whisper, but her tail uncurled slightly. The stench of the sewer outside hit her in the face, and that was nasty, but at this point it was somewhat familiar nasty. Her heart was starting to slow down a little, no longer threatening to exit via her ear patches. Behind them, she could hear the two humans following: one light tread in leather shoes, one pair of very heavy boots, and the sound of two swords being sheathed.

“ Are you sure we want to do this old chap?” Adrian asked softly, as they were on their way out.

“ Yes,” Rullus said. His voice was hard to read from inside the helmet, but the set of his shoulders was more normal. Maybe a little stiff. The Breton was not sure what to make of it. He had heard Rullus verbally express anger or disgust at some of the things they had found in the course of the work that had financed the long chase, but he'd never seen him react this way.

_ He's a grown man, and you know he doesn't want what you'd like to offer. Let it go. _

“ But it was something he needed to know,” J'hazarr said, and then he fell quiet because he could hear Idrasa coming up behind them, walking softly despite her leather boots and what was probably a heavy load. She had pulled the cloth mask up over her nose again to muffle the hideous stench. The halo of light from the lantern she carried obscured her remaining features.

“ We'll have to take a boat out of Vivec,” she said, moving briskly past J'hazarr. She was not taking the same route J'hazarr and Two-Colors had used in coming there. “After that we should easily reach the cave by tomorrow if we keep moving.” J'hazarr fell in behind her. He was mindful of the sound of Rullus's boots against the slick walkway; he didn't want to get too close.

_ I wish I could fix all of this,  _ J'hazarr thought. His stared straight ahead, keeping Idrasa's boots in his narrow field of view so he wouldn't go veering off into the water. _ I've done my best. I dedicated my life to ending the scourge of the Daedra to prevent this sort of thing happening to anyone else. But here he is, alive and hurting, and there's nothing I could ever do to make that better. _

_ You could have let him kill you. Let him believe that he was avenging their deaths. _

_ I don't want to die. Talos and Divines, I don't want to die! _

The old argument was starting again. J'hazarr wanted to scream.

Two-Colors couldn't resist the occasional glance over her shoulder at the two Imperials, but whatever was going on inside Rullus Ennius' ebony helm, it could not be detected from outside at all, let alone in the dark. He paced along silently behind them with his bag on his shoulder, silent. The Breton's face was pale and drawn and nearly visible, and once she thought he shot her a small half-smile: _ it'll be all right.  _ His occasional cough seemed to bely that suggestion.

_ I hope that it will, _ she thought, turning back to glance up at J'hazarr. Nothing could be seen inside his helmet, either, but she knew from experience that his face often didn't show what he was thinking anyway.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone could tell me why the AO3 rich text editor is adding spaces after quotation marks, and how to make it stop, I'd appreciate that.

# Chapter Sixteen

 

Eventually Idrasa stopped. J'hazarr almost didn't. He clanked to a halt inches behind her, yanked abruptly from that endless spiral of self loathing, and saw an iron ladder reaching up to a trap door on the ceiling. This one looked much sturdier than the other, to his relief.

“Take this,” Idrasa said, handing the lantern to J'hazarr. He took it without response and the Dunmer began the climb, grunting once as she hauled her pack and crossbow up along with her. She paused at the top to lift the door with caution and J'hazarr blinked at the sudden flood of light – dim, but much brighter than the sewer. He could hear the roar of water above.

J'hazarr passed the lantern off to Two-Colors so the rest of the party would not be left in the dark and took his turn with the ladder. He tied the cord of his bag to his belt and went up slowly, supporting himself with only one hand because he still had to hold the sword. The bag was an annoyance, swinging about and catching occasionally on the rungs. Two-Colors impatiently watched J'hazarr climb, shifting from foot to foot and causing the little circle of light to swing around her. Being the center of the only patch of illumination for yards made her intensely uncomfortable.

As he emerged from the hole at the top, J’hazarr slid the sword away from himself to free his hand, then crawled out on his hands and knees. A family of vagrants appeared to be washing themselves at the end of the fountain-lined hallway, but otherwise the canalworks were empty. The stairs to the outside were directly behind him. J'hazarr had gained his feet and turned to face the trap door while untying the bag from his belt when the sound of movement on the stairs made him glance up. Idrasa drew her tanto immediately, the steel whispering out from its fur-lined scabbard, and then stood very still. At first they saw only a pair of feet half hidden by a long robe as someone came down. Then they saw steel boots, followed next by the face of the cultist woman. She froze mid-step, locking eyes with the Khajiit for only a moment.

“It's them!” J'hazarr shouted, whirling to scoop the glass sword from the floor. The cultist was already dropping her bag on the landing.

Two-Colors had no particular reason to expect them to be attacked the moment they ascended, so his exclamation took her completely by surprise. She shoved the lantern at Adrian and swarmed up the ladder as if gravity had no meaning. “Get up here, hurry!”

“I call Narshavek!” Favise hissed as she sprinted through the entryway, one hand outthrust to aim her palm behind J'hazarr. The Ohmes-raht didn't have time to wonder what those words meant when he _felt_ the whirlwind of magicka behind himself, smelled the burning stink of the displaced air blowing past his helm.

The Imperial started up the ladder with what seemed like agonizing slowness, one deliberate footstep at a time. He wasn't particularly concerned about being injured by the fall, but if he fell off the ladder and had to start over, yet more precious seconds would be lost. Below him, Adrian held the lantern up, staring around at the dark in case a two-pronged attack had been planned.

Ulien was only steps behind Favise on the stairs when he heard a shout, and then saw her rush forward with her summons. He held out his right hand as he drew magicka through the ring he had been given and felt the satisfying weight of a daedric shortsword thock into his palm. He grinned as he bounded down the last couple of steps and ran forward. There was that same damned Ohmes-raht, carrying his glass longsword. The Argonian dove out of the hole behind him and rolled to one side, backpack rattling, even as Ulien moved forward. He reluctantly shifted targets. As well kill the girl while Narshavek kept the Khajiit busy, if the daedra could not kill him outright.

Two-Colors came up with the shockbite in her hand, teeth bared.

Idrasa had shrugged off her bag as soon as the cultist started her run toward J'hazarr. Now she stabbed at Favise just as red mist coalesced into solid metal, gleaming black and red: dagger in her hand, buckler on her arm. The tanto banged against the gruesome face of the shield and slid down to catch in the demon's fangs. Favise stabbed at the other Dunmer overhand; Idrasa tried to duck aside but the barbed dagger raked across her face, ripping through her cloth mask and deeply gouging her cheek and ear before hitting her leather cap. The agent grunted in pain and jerked back.

Before she could strike at the cultist again Favise released a blast of freezing magicka directly into the agent's face; white-blue magicka shuddered across her skin and solidified into a film of ice, muffling her scream, driving pins and needles into her skin and into her eyes. Favise slashed again at the flailing woman's throat and was satisfied to feel her blade bite through flesh before she planted a foot in her gut to knock her back.

J'hazarr spun to face the armored monster behind himself. The dremora growled from inside a helm twisted into a snarling face and stepped forward, drawing his longsword from its scabbard and across J'hazarr's chest in one fluid movement. J'hazarr blocked the strike just as his translucent shield of magicka flickered into place, but the Khajiit's entire body still rattled with an impact that drove him back a step. The dremora swung again, this time a strike from the side which J'hazarr parried again.

Two-Colors didn't care for the way the swordsman moved and cared even less for the smile on his face. _Cocky bastard._ It did not occur to her for a second that this was a bit hypocritical.

She bounced on her tiptoes, waiting. His first slash was a feint, as she expected; she was ready for the slashing backhand that followed and leaned easily aside, following up with an attempt to scrape his knuckles and shock him. He caught the dagger tip across his thumb and stepped quickly back, hissing between his teeth as electricity crackled over his body, but it didn't knock him down.

The Blades agent was already falling, steam rising from her face from the ice that coated it. _She's dead if I can't get away from this asshole._ Two-Colors slashed high at the Dunmer's face, then when he raised the shield to defend himself she dove forward between his legs and came up running toward the other Dunmer, shifting the dagger into a throwing grip as best she could without touching the actual blade. Quick, it would have to be quick or she'd pick it off with the shield and then Two-Colors would be unarmed. She threw underhand the second she was all the way on her feet.

The domed top of Rullus' helmed head was only just emerging from the trapdoor, allowing him a view through his visor.

Teeth grit behind his helm, J'hazarr's patience was wearing thin as he parried strike after strike. Finally his chance came: the dremora slashed down at J'hazarr in just the right way for him to trap the daedric blade in the long glass lugs protruding at acute angles from his sword. He twisted the sword down and the trapped blade with it, then grabbed the dremora's wrist with his free hand.

An oily rainbow of color rushed over his gauntlet and magicka poured from the dremora into J'hazarr. It was furiously hot, magma in J'hazarr's veins – so much, so fast! This dremora was no mage but still the volume of magicka at his disposal was incredible. J'hazarr had only tapped a fragment of that power when the dremora snarled and snapped a kick at J'hazarr's hip to knock him free. Their swords disentangled as J'hazarr stumbled back and the dremora raised a magical shield of his own. J'hazarr clumsily batted away another hit as the dremora stalked toward him. He threw out his hand, a red ribbon of light snapping out to tether J'hazarr to the dremora, draining his health with the demon's own magicka.

Favise turned to face the Argonian too slowly. The thrown dagger caught her in the side of the right arm. Electric light crackled across her clothes and skin as agony ripped through her body, but she did not stop. She could see a fourth figure emerging from the sewer and knew this had to end quickly. The Khajiit was the primary target. She sprinted toward his back, leaving Idrasa on the ground.

The agent had already begun to heal herself, blue light spiraling out from the ring beneath her leather gloves. Vapor rose from her face as the ice melted. She jerked up onto her knee before the damaged tissues had finished their transformation.

Ulien twisted to hack at the Argonian, but she was already out of reach. He turned swiftly to find she had already thrown her knife at the other Dunmer. Fast little monster. He supposed that explained how she'd ever landed a hit last time. He turned to run after them as Favise hurtled toward the Khajiit's back.

Two-Colors scooped up the knife an instant after it hit the ground. She could throw it at the Dunmer's back, but there was a chance it wouldn't get through in time to do enough damage, and then she might not be able to retrieve it again -

Puff of air against her right side. She dodged away reflexively, and the daedric shortsword flicked away a wedge of her leather shirt's shoulder instead of slashing her throat. She completed the movement by whirling to her left, diving down to take her weight against the ground with one hand as she kicked out at the Dunmer's legs. He took a hit to his left shin but didn't go down, didn't even lose that stupid smile on his face. She thought she felt something give, but it didn't slow him down. He was already whirling the daedric blade around in a bid to decapitate her, slashing downward toward her head. Dodging that had her scrabbling sideways on all fours, barely holding onto the knife, but the blade clipped chips of plaster from the floor instead.

Neither the cultists or their dremora were paying attention to Idrasa for the moment. She remained kneeling, swinging the crossbow off her shoulder and into her hands. She moved rapidly but methodically as she wound the crossbow and loaded her shockbite quarrel; Idrasa did not make stupid mistakes under pressure.

Favise threw her spell at the Khajiit's back as she ran, an angry ball of red light that _poomfed_ against his gorget. Rust bloomed from the point of contact and expanded outward like a fast-spreading mold, crawling up over his helm and down his cuirass. It slowed and stilled, advancing only as far as the right hinge of his face plate and the buckles along his sides.

J'hazarr whirled to knock her away, fist clenching on the hilt of his sword as he cast his spell absorption – but from Idrasa's corner came a _snap-boing_ and her quarrel blew out from just below Favise's ribcage with a small spray of gore before thunking against J'hazarr's cuirass and falling, inert. The cultist grunted and toppled forward, locked in spasm as electricity crackled across her body and steam rose from the wound. J'hazarr's sword sailed over her head as he completed his whirl, a glimmer of magicka flashing across his armor.

Then the dremora brought the hilt of his sword down on the back of J'hazarr's skull – it slowed as it passed through his shield, but the brittle rust caved inward and the hilt smacked against his head. J'hazarr saw lights and staggered forward, trampling over the body of the mage.

The Blades agent was still in it. Two-Colors couldn't spare much attention for what was going on over there while she was still trying to stay out of the way of the Dunmer in front of her, who just kept furiously slashing at her, her frantically moving reflection darting across the glass buckler on his other arm. He was limping slightly now, grinning less cheerfully and more manically as he lunged forward to try and skewer her. Her attempt to hack the tendons on his wrist where the chainmail ran out just resulted in the shockbite clanging off the rim of the glass shield as he jerked it forward. It hit her in the side of the face and knocked her back. She hit the ground on her shoulder and rolled, stars in front of her eyes, and ended up on one elbow, preemptively flailing one leg in a blind kick at the attack she knew was coming.

Rullus Ennius was nearly out of the trapdoor now, heaving one knee up onto the plaster floor, levering himself up with the rim of his shield. He was in time to see J'hazarr stagger, but this caused him no particular dilemma. He had agreed to the mission; the mission took precedence. He bashed at the back of the dremora's armored knee with the shield, trying to buckle the joint.

The dremora was leaning forward to grab Favise by the back of her collar. He did not particularly care that his master and hers were one and the same; all mortals were worms to Narshavek. But she wore his ring of summon. He flung her away to the side, far from the fighting, and felt an impact against his knee.

A metallic growl issued from within the helm and Narshavek turned to face the newcomer, whirling his blade up in an arc over his head to slam it down against the ebony helm.

Favise hit the ground with a pained squeak, rolled, and flopped up against one of the basins of water. She was burned from the inside out; the lightning had cauterized the wounds made by the quarrel and now her entire body throbbed with agony. She moaned and lifted herself up with one forearm, dagger still in her hand, buckler still on her arm. The others would be able to see a flash of blue in the dark as she drew upon her healing ring.

From the corner of her eye, as the pain cleared, Favise saw the other Dunmer loading a second quarrel onto her crossbow. The cultist rolled onto her side, curling her body up and ducking her head behind her buckler just as the quarrel hit with a sharp _plink._ Sparks flew and lightning crackled across the shield but Favise was unharmed.

J'hazarr regained his balance as he ran forward, his heart throbbing painfully in the back of his skull. It felt like being pounded on with a hammer. He knew from the sounds behind him that Rullus had attacked the dremora; he would not be pursued. He stopped, blinking to clear his vision, and there before him was the swordsman, that _asshole_ , chasing after Two-Colors. J'hazarr sprinted after him. He snarled wordlessly, ferally, and gripped the hilt of his borrowed sword with both hands to drive it like a lance through the mer's back.

The Dunmer evaded Two-Colors' weak attempt at a kick easily, and she heard him laugh as he drew back the daedric blade to drive it into her chest. Then he twitched. Two-Colors' vision cleared in time to see the blade drop from his hand. It vanished in an expulsion of crimson sparks as he stared downward with an expression of surprise and annoyance at the bloodied length of green glass protruding from his chest.

"My own... damn... sword... hruglbth." Blood fountained from his mouth, and then his eyes glazed as his knees started to sag, shield arm falling.

The sensation of the blade sinking into the swordsman's body with hardly any resistance was intensely satisfying. J'hazarr planted a boot on the swordsman's lower back and shoved him off the blade, letting the body fall in a heap while blood pulsed out from the holes. J'hazarr twirled the sword, flinging off the droplets of blood beading up on the glass. He was grinning down at Two-Colors as he bent forward to offer her a hand up.Two-Colors couldn’t see his face inside his helm, but she grinned back at J'hazarr for just that second as he lifted her to her feet. The stench of recent death forced her nostrils shut, but she was too high on adrenaline to feel nauseated. Then he tapped his helm with two fingers in a sort of salute before turning and dashing across the hall toward the woman cultist. Rullus could hold his own against a dremora, J'hazarr was sure, and _she_ had been the one to summon it.

Rullus jerked his shield up in time to avoid a direct blow to the head. The creature was strong, but with both arms supporting his shield it was not driven down into his skull. Sparks flew, and he was certain he had acquired another deep groove in the ebony, but it held. He could hear Adrian coughing as he climbed the ladder below.

Blade still against the mortal's shield, Narshavek let one hand drop from the hilt, palm toward the man's helm, and released a torrent of flame.

_We've failed,_ Favise thought, hurling a blast of frost at the mer with the crossbow, who easily rolled out of the way. The magicka exploded against a fountain behind her. The stream froze, then cracked and finally burst, throwing twinkling slivers of ice skidding across the floor.

Favise's anger was dull and distant. She knew she would never survive against the five of them. If she ran she would be pursued. She would fight to the very last in an attempt to fulfill her mission, in an attempt to make it all _mean something_ , but being granted this final victory seemed unlikely.

There wasn't time for grief. Favise scrambled up while the Dunmer wound her crossbow. The Khajiit was running straight at her. She had enough magicka left for one more attack, but he would just dodge. If she released it point-blank, she'd be within reach of his sword.

J'hazarr jabbed at the cultist's belly when he was close enough, although she danced aside, as he'd expected, putting himself between her and Idrasa.

“Come on, I know you've got magicka left,” J'hazarr said, grinning, feinting a jab which she easily backed away from. His tail lashed slowly from side to side.

“And I know you'll absorb it.” Favise smiled hatefully back at him. Her eyes flicked aside briefly toward the Argonian to check her position.

Two-Colors had already swiped her dropped dagger off the ground and paused to see what was going on. The Blade was winding her crossbow – J'hazarr was already attacking the surviving cultist – Rullus was engulfed in a small gout of flame from the demon's hand. No good trying for another throw, Idrasa and J'hazarr were both between her and the other Dunmer. There wasn't a damn thing she could do to an armored daedra. Good gods, it was the first time she'd ever seen one in person and not in a book. The creature stank of alien flesh, of sulfur and smoke and the strange fire-blood-magicka scent of daedric armor.

Rullus ducked his head to protect his eyes. He felt the ebony helm heat around him, his gorget, his cuirass, but the padding inside the armor secured him against the worst of it. Only his cheeks were burned, and the scar was already heavy there from similar attacks near his visor slit. He shoved back and upward suddenly, forcing himself onto his feet against the weight of dremora and sword, trying to push the creature off balance. The muscles in his arms and legs screamed, but he had been accustomed to test his strength against even a heavier opponent in armor. He would not be stopped just by bearing down.

Idrasa stood to adjust her position – J'hazarr knew this because the cultist darted aside so that the Khajiit's body would continue blocking her line of sight. Most of her short red hair had worked itself loose from its tail. It hung frizzled and wild around her face like a mane. She glared up at J'hazarr with flaring nostrils, hatred etched in every line of her face. He'd seen that feral look before on those about to die, when they became more animal than person.

She flipped her knife into an icepick grip and lunged at him. Her hoarse scream of fury became a high-pitched whine when his sword skewered her through the belly, but she continued to push herself along its length. He caught her right hand as it flew toward his eyes – she'd gambled everything for a chance to stab him through the eye slit – just as the dagger in her hands dissolved in a puff of red mist and the blade reformed in her left hand.

The second attack on his eyes was clumsy, weak; the blade missed its mark, scraped against his helm, and then puffed away when her arm dropped. The cultist slumped on his blade, blood gushing from her mouth. Her eyes twitched up to look at him from beneath her frazzled hair. There was no anger, only mild astonishment, and then she collapsed forward. She was too heavy to hold up so J'hazarr let the end of the blade drop to the floor with her body.

The snarling dremora had just raised his sword to bash at the Imperial again when he suddenly exploded into a shower of sparks and was gone. Rullus was forced forward a step to keep from falling on his face. He corrected, got his balance, looked around; but the dremora was gone, and the two Dunmer were dead. Behind him, the trapdoor shut behind Adrian as he stepped out with the lantern.

He pushed his helm back to make sure none of it was fused to his face. He was blistered, he could feel it, but it wasn't as though it was going to ruin his looks.

“Finally,” Two-Colors said. She was aware that she was shaking, stink of blood and death in her nostrils that could not be escaped by shutting them. She held onto the straps of her pack to keep her hands still. “These are the same two that attacked us on the road. At least they won't be after us again.”

“Is anyone injured?” Rullus asked. “I am not yet out of magicka.” He did not look at any of them as he said it.

J'hazarr slid his sword out from underneath the woman and wiped her own blood off on her robe. Blood continued to burble out from her wounds, the harsh metallic scent of it overwhelming the soap-and-piss smell of the canalworks.

His skull was still throbbing, but J'hazarr knew it wasn't a serious injury. He probably wasn't even bleeding, so he kept that to himself as he moved back toward the swordsman to pilfer his baldric and scabbard. He had worked the baldric off the corpse when his head snapped up to the sound of voices not far off, footsteps on the distant stairs. More than one person was approaching, voices grim and strident.

“Ordinators,” Idrasa hissed. Everyone understood instantly what that meant. They could try to explain that the dead mer on the ground had attacked them first, but J'hazarr didn't expect the law to look favorably on a bunch of outlanders who had just slaughtered citizens of Morrowind. Especially when the only Dunmer to vouch for them had a Cyrodiilic accent.

There was a mad scramble as everyone rushed to collect their gear and then they were running, a din of pounding boots and clinking armor as Idrasa led the way up the nearer staircase.

Two-Colors sprinted up the stairs after Idrasa, heart pounding, swearing under her breath in Jel. Behind her she heard the snap of Rullus Ennius closing his helm again. She frankly didn't expect either of the two humans to keep up, but they did, though she could hear Rullus breathing like a bellows and Adrian coughing by the time they reached the top of the staircase.

“I can cast water walk,” J'hazarr hissed behind Idrasa as they ran. He could hear shouting from behind, ordinators yelling for them to halt. He had just enough magicka left to cast the spell on each of them. Taking a boat was out of the question. Even if people might not have remembered what Idrasa looked like, they probably weren't going to forget the giant lunk in the black armor.

“Fine. Do it!” Idrasa hissed back, and then they exploded from the door and into the light and bustle of St. Olms at noon. Idrasa shoved her way through the crowd and pedestrians naturally parted from the line of running fugitives with cries of alarm. When she reached the raised lip that edged the walkway, J'hazarr dropped his bag to press his palm against her arm. As soon as the magicka was released Idrasa vaulted the short wall, dropping at least ten feet to the water below. J'hazarr didn't have time to check to see if she made it all right before he turned for the next person.

At the edge Two-Colors paused to let J'hazarr slap a gauntlet onto her shoulder, the giddy thrill of the water walking spell tingling through her in the moment before she vaulted off onehanded. Big flat feet made no impression on the rubbery surface.

Rullus and Adrian stood there looking at J'hazarr. Adrian buried his face in his elbow for a second, wheezing, white-faced; but Rullus just stood looking down at the Ohmes-raht through his visor.

With one refusal he could leave Rullus behind, possibly forever, arrested in Vivec as J'hazarr fled to Cyrodiil. All he had to do was jump the rim without casting the spell.

J'hazarr's eyes flicked between Rullus and the other man – Adrian, he'd said his name was Adrian de frou-frou something-or-other. All he had to do was press a slowfall spell to Rullus's armor and the man wouldn't know the double-cross until he had jumped. Both spells cost the same amount of magicka. Then he'd have a long fall to contemplate his defeat before he plunged into the sea and drowned while everyone else was helpless to do anything about it.

But J'hazarr couldn't do that. The thought came unbidden, but it was never really an option.

“Pick him up,” J'hazarr said brusquely, reaching out to lay a hand on Rullus's arm. Glimmering pink magicka pulsed out across his armor _twice_. J'hazarr wished he'd had magicka enough to cast slowfall on all of them, but he didn't, and these two needed it the most. Rullus was just heavy enough that he might actually break through the water's surface, and Adrian looked fragile enough to shatter on the ground.

Rullus jerked his chin down once and turned to haul Adrian up over his right shoulder. The Breton did not protest beyond a startled _oof_. Maybe he really was ill. Rullus wasn't thrilled about the cough, either, but they didn't have time to talk. It was all he could do to hold still even for a second of J'hazarr laying a hand on him. Having magicka from his worst enemy pulse through his body was one of the worst sensations he could ever remember experiencing even though neither spell was painful, and in fact both were reasonably pleasant. He climbed over the rail and pushed off into empty space.

Then J'hazarr cast the water walk spell on himself, picked up his bag, and vaulted the wall before the heady tingle had even dissipated. The sword and baldric were clenched together in one hand.

It was at about that time that Rullus realized J'hazarr could have just cast slowfall twice and let him drown. He looked down at the approaching water as the Khajiit plummeted past him.

_This is where you find out whether and how much you have been wrong – or very briefly how much you have been right._

J'hazarr's feet kicked out stupidly as the glittering water rushed up at him, outstretched tail gyrating wildly. He wasn't used to falling long distances without slowfall and for one horrible moment the bottom of his belly dropped out and J'hazarr quite irrationally thought he was going to die. There was a sharp clack when he hit boots-first. His own bag knocked into him and he went down on one knee.

Idrasa had already pressed herself up against the base of the canton to make room for the others. Ripples rocked J'hazarr from beneath as he scrambled up to join her, hastily throwing the baldric over his head.

“Two-Colors, you all right?” he blurted. His heart thundered wildly inside his chest and in his skull. He could hear angry shouting up on the walkway.

“What? I'm fine,” Two-Colors said, bobbing slightly on the ripples from J'hazarr's landing. She had been watching the majestic descent of a very large man in ebony armor, realizing J'hazarr had thought of something that had not occurred to her at all. “Got hit in the face once, that's all. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” J'hazarr said, flipping up his visor so that he could finally get some air. He was slightly winded from the run, still breathing hard through his nose. He watched Rullus floating down without comment or expression and looked away before the Imperial had a chance to meet his eyes. He slid the glass blade, still slick with blood, into its scabbard.

Rullus's feet touched down on the water. It gave in a slightly disconcerting way, like walking on jelly, but he did not sink. He left Adrian where he was. J'hazarr had only been able to cast his spells on Rullus; the Breton would sink.

“Sorry, old man,” he said. “We're in for a bit of a trot.”

“Think nothing of it,” the Breton said breathlessly from behind him. “In fact I'm obliged. We'd better not stop here. The fellows in the gold masks don't carry bows everywhere, but I imagine it won't take them long to find one.”

“Hurry up,” Idrasa huffed and broke into a trot across the water. To the East of St. Olms lay an islet roughly shaped like a lopsided _jeb_. Fortuitously, the Western limb of the islet stretched very near the canton. They had more than enough time to cross before the spell ended. J'hazarr heard shouting from above and behind as he ran after the Blade but he didn't stop to look.

“This is bad,” Idrasa hissed between gritted teeth, almost too low for J'hazarr to hear over the slap of boots on water. “They can clearly see which direction we're going.”

“If we head inland rather than following the coast they probably won't find us,” J'hazarr replied calmly.

“If they're like the city guards in Balmora they give no fucks once you're out of sight of town,” Two-Colors said, easily trotting along beside Idrasa. She was the least burdened of any of them. She was not thinking of that presently. She was resisting the urge to break into a sprint, imagining an archer drawing a bead on the back of her head. Everyone could hear Rullus breathing, but he didn't seem to have trouble keeping up; his stride was unhesitant as he jogged across the water carrying the Breton over his shoulder. “They probably won't try to follow us inland. Especially not when they find – fuck. We left the rings. AND the shield!” She squinted in actual pain at the sheer amount of septims they'd left lying on the plastered floor. “Eh. J'hazarr probably would've thrown them in lava anyhow.”

J'hazarr made a sound that was half grunt and half chuckle.

“Well, not the glass shield...” he said, smile creases forming around his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Idrasa asked. She hopped over a small wave that rolled underfoot then turned to jog backward, looking at the distant canton. J'hazarr glanced over his own shoulder and saw what she did: no boats had set out after them yet. Ahead of them lay a broad, pebbly beach of gray sand, and beyond that rose a line of trees and parasols on a grassy slope. There were no signs of habitation. Garbage littered the beach, but that had most likely washed up on the waves.

“I hunt Daedric artifacts and I destroy them,” J'hazarr said. “Tossing them into lava is the only way I know of to accomplish that.” The white foam lapping against the beach had a strangely spongy texture and then they were stepping onto sand so firm-packed that it hardly gave at all.

"That's why these cult assholes are after him and me to begin with," Two-Colors said dryly, not slowing down. "He chucked Dagon's Mighty Fists down a crack in Molag Mar. I tried my damnedest to steal them back first, but since they'd still be gone if I'd succeeded I doubt we'd be better off."

_You with all your plans,_ she thought to herself. _You think Habasi would protect you if a bunch of bastards with daedric equipment showed up asking? She'd toss you to them without a second glance._ And she would've been without J'hazarr as an armored wall between her and them, which was a cold thought but a true one. I've been so stupid.

Rullus was too out of breath to say anything even if he had wished to do so. He watched his footing carefully at the shoreline, then stopped long enough to set Adrian on his feet. The Breton slapped him wordlessly on the arm and struck out alongside the others. There was a bloodless look to his face, nearly transparent in the sun.

“You are a supreme idiot for throwing away something so valuable. At the very least they should be surrendered to the Empire,” Idrasa said, breathily, without looking at either of them. She did not seem very invested in the conversation, probably was considering the ground they had yet to cover before reaching the cave. J'hazarr didn't care enough to bother responding.

When they were up the slope and past the trees Idrasa finally stopped long enough to plonk down her pack and pull out a waterskin. Her chest heaved between gulps, and when she was done she scanned the group while wiping her mouth with the back of a hand – disapprovingly, J'hazarr thought, when she looked at the Breton. Her torn mask had been pulled down beneath her chin. She was untying the cloth when J'hazarr retrieved his own waterskin, now that he had his bag back. J'hazarr was not physically tired, but he felt the disconcertingly vulnerable sensation of being without magicka.

“Didn't pee in it, did you?” J'hazarr said dryly, turning around to face Rullus and giving the water a shake.

“No,” Rullus gasped. “That's just Vivec you smell.” He said it without thinking, before he remembered why he didn't particularly want to joke with J'hazarr. He'd refilled that bottle as well as his own when they were staying at the inn atop Hlaalu canton. He passed the rough clay cylinder to Adrian now, shoulders heaving as he tried to get his breath back. Trying to run under two hundred pounds of armor for any length of time was no joke.

J'hazarr snorted, flashing a purse-lipped smile Rullus' way before taking a drink.

“Ah yes,” Adrian panted, wiping his mouth as he passed the bottle to Rullus. “The unique flavor of the holy city.”

Two-Colors pulled out her own little waterskin, bouncing nervously on her toes. She felt that if she stopped moving she might throw up. The water hit her stomach like a small ball of lead; she made a face and put it away quickly, adjusting the straps on her shoulders. _You hated both of those people. You're glad they're dead. Don't be a useless stupid burden._

If Idrasa was offended by Adrian's quip she didn't show it, wordlessly tucking her things back into the bag.

“I know we're all tired from that little jaunt, but I'd like to cover as much distance as possible before it gets dark,” she said, already shifting the bag onto her back and beginning to walk. She spoke to them over her shoulder. “If any one of you absolutely needs to stop, say so and we'll set camp.”

J'hazarr fell in behind her again, walking beside Two-Colors when he could. There was no road, no foot trail to follow, but the underbrush was sparse enough not to impede their progress.

“Understood,” Rullus said. He reached up to rub his nose and found the skin still blistered, and tapped his chest briefly as he released his little heal. He was low on magicka. If anything else attacked them he would have to choose between casting the little one three times, his magicka resist once, or his more powerful regenerative spell once. Adrian shot him a startled glance in the moment before Rullus tipped his helmet back on. “My stamina is poor in full armor. It is possible we may need to stop, later.”

_So that Adrian doesn't collapse. He is definitely ill. How have I failed to notice it all this time?_

_Because he has been trying to pretend otherwise in front of me._

He felt a foreboding twist in his gut at that realization, but there was no time to dwell on it when there was still work to be done. Just as well. He didn't need time to dwell on J'hazarr's revelations, either. _Not the original. Lives a life destroying daedric artifacts. Seems to have at least partly rehabilitated this thief, who is very dependent on him. The world is a worse place if I remove this mer from it._ The blocks of logic lined themselves up remorselessly in his head as he tramped onward. Grief and anger and burning resentment competed for his attention, a constant dull ache in his heart and head.

_She could just be lying._

_No. He hasn't expected her to say any of the things she's said. I have watched his face so closely..._

He walked near Idrasa, ahead where possible or where she directed him, so that he could push through the denser foliage first. They were leaving a trail a mile wide, but in his own case that was nearly impossible to avoid. It was the Ordinators' indifference and not their own stealth that was their best protection now. Probably they would not look too hard for people that had killed two obvious daedric cultists, once they had found the rings.

He did not look at J'hazarr at all when he could avoid it, not even at the Argonian. She was part of the entire agonizing dilemma and he did not wish to keep having it pushed in front of his face.

Two-Colors just grunted at Idrasa's words. She wasn't going to keel over from a day's hard run and walk, at least not with food, water and healing enough to get her away from the events of yesterday.

Food. They hadn't had time to reprovision themselves, and she was basically out. Good thing she hadn't thrown up after all, that pasty was going to have to last her a long time – and J'hazarr had a bigger body, with greater needs.

“If we do stop I'll need to go try and hunt,” she said. “We're out of food. I didn't have time to sssbuy more before we left Vivec.” They couldn't ask for more than that. Then the big lunkhead wouldn't have to try and share his with his worst enemies, and J'hazarr wouldn't have to accept the additional humiliation of taking it for her sake.

J'hazarr wasn't looking well. She tried to stay close to him as well, watching his face inside his helm when she thought he wasn't looking. He'd taken some hits today without any healing, first from Rullus, then from the cultists, and then he'd had a hard landing from Vivec, though she couldn't see that he was limping. She wasn't going to forget that scream soon.

_The Breton doesn't seem able to cast spells. Maybe he has a potion in his bag I can nick when we're stopped for the night._

As they moved East the terrain became a little less green and a little more sandy and pebbly. They were skirting the edge of the Ascadian Isles and the rim of Molag Mar, a strange hybrid terrain where the plants were dense but mostly dry and brown, the trees scrubby and short. Idrasa called a halt when Magnus had so far descended that it was becoming hard for presumably everyone but J'hazarr to see. They camped in a grassy hollow ringed by crooked roobrush trees, scattered willow anther flowers growing in the shade. There was a thin trickle of water in hearing but not in sight, a small rivulet that bubbled over rocks on its way to the now-distant sea.

By that time the Breton wasn't saying anything at all, though he had occasionally chatted to Rullus in Cyrodilic as they walked. He “helped” Rullus drag a couple of logs over for everyone to sit on in the sense that he held onto one end of each while the big man hauled them around.

J'hazarr helped gather firewood far from Rullus and Adrian, moving lethargically even though the day had not been particularly strenuous compared to most. He was still able to smile softly to himself when he imagined a city lizard like Two-Colors attempting to hunt, although he wasn't sure why – She was capable of moving very silently and had a nose like a hound, so perhaps it would come naturally to her.

In the end it wasn't necessary. After a small fire had been lit, Idrasa offered to share her own rations with the rest of the group. They four were, after all, risking their lives for the sake of her mission.

Two-Colors thanked Idrasa politely enough, slightly ashamed of her earlier thoughts about Dunmer in general. The taste of the salted meat was incredibly familiar. Well, it wasn't the first time she'd eaten rat. It was skinned and dried, all fancy-like. And she was hungry enough that she would have eaten the guts out of a cliff racer. The dried pomegranate arils, pear slices, and honeyed oatcakes made up for it. The two humans shared their own rations from a smaller sack Adrian had been carrying on his belt. They must've bought things in Vivec. That made sense. Somebody the size of Rullus Ennius probably had to eat constantly. For once she was grateful for being so small, a very unfamiliar sensation.

J'hazarr ate his dinner hunched on one of the logs with his forearms across his thighs, tail draped limp over the log beside himself. He had spread his bedroll out at his feet and piled his armor back behind himself. The suit was done for. The patches of rust on the back of his helm and cuirass were too deep to remove without rubbing a hole through the steel. He wanted to clean his boots, at least, but it would have to wait for tomorrow's light. The residual stink of the sewer was still with them, clinging to their bodies and their things, but one hardly noticed surrounded by all this fresh air. The sky was vaster than it ever had been, J'hazarr thought, but he seldom looked upward.

The two men took turns going to the rivulet to wash their faces and hands after they’d all finished eating. The Breton passed close enough to Two-Colors that she could smell him: dried sweat, human flesh, fabric, sewer clinging to his hems, plaster, salt pork he'd just eaten, lingering uncomfortable tang of something strange and unpleasant and unfamiliar. It wasn't any drug she knew. It had a fleshly sort of wrongness to it.

Well, it wasn't her business. Rullus had already demonstrated he could carry the man if necessary, so he wasn't likely to slow them down.

Rullus gave it serious thought before he took off his armor, but he was tired, and he knew he would not sleep in full plate. He piled it on an old piece of hide from his bag and sat in his gray-white padding. Out of armor he was merely a large man with a damaged face; he and J'hazarr might have been members of the same guild or company. He preserved the truce as best he could by paying no attention to J'hazarr as everyone ate. He could not avoid noticing the Ohmes-raht going through his things, taking inventory. He froze when his hand closed around a scroll case, but he put it back without a word and stared sullenly into the fire. At that point Adrian was still washing up at the rivulet, in the dark.

“I did look inside,” Rullus said. “To ensure there was nothing that could harm us as we slept, nothing cursed. I did not read your letters.”

Two-Colors, sitting at right angles to the fire with her legs off one end of the log J'hazarr sat on, glanced over her shoulder at them both. She'd been thinking of nothing, staring into space, and to not look into a fire at night was now automatic.

J'hazarr's frown tightened briefly. How could Rullus speak to him so calmly, so politely, as if nothing at all had passed between them? He would almost prefer to be treated harshly. At least that would make sense.

“Thank you,” J'hazarr said stiffly, turning his face toward the Imperial. He'd grown increasingly uncomfortable with their mutual avoidance as the day wore on and suddenly felt compelled to look. The firelight flickered warm and orange against the man's face, the broken topography creating deep, jagged shadows that made him appear more monster than human. “It's nothing important, really. A letter from my sister. I'm assuming you've already met, although she has failed to ever mention you. If you _did_ kill me, would you have told her? It would break her heart if I stopped replying to her letters and she never knew why.” There was a very slight edge to his otherwise monotonous voice.

Idrasa had said little all through their meal. She had removed her cap but not her leathers and sat with the crossbow over her lap. Her black hair was only about an inch long, had probably been shaved at some point. Now she grunted in annoyance from across the fire, sitting up straighter. J'hazarr heard her inhale, ready to tell him off for being an instigator.

Rullus held up a thick-fingered hand to forestall the Dunmer. The knuckles were by this point so callused that he could stick a pin a quarter-inch in and feel nothing, had he been so inclined.

He quashed a surge of furious anger that he knew was not rational, more a matter of habit than anything else: _How dare you speak so to me?_ Even had J'hazarr been exactly what Rullus had always believed him to be, they still had to get through the next few days. The Ohmes-raht's eyes were black as oil, gleaming faintly in the firelight across from him, his face a map of strange shadows. _And one long new scar on his cheek, gained from no incident I ever learned. He never did say where it came from._ From the corner of his eye he was aware of Adrian de Faelencourt watching him very closely as the Breton circled the fire back toward his seat, passing behind Idrasa rather than the others. He stopped with one hand on the Imperial's shoulder. Adrian had a better chance of holding back the Panther River, physically speaking, but he was correct in the assumption that his voice would stop Rullus before his arm would. That thought deflated him, and he sighed silently, heaving his big shoulders.

“I spoke to the groundskeeper, and he told me you'd sailed for Vvardenfell,” Rullus said. “I never saw Lady Shadazi. I have told lies of omission in pursuit of you, but I could not dissemble to her face, and I did not wish to be the one to inflict the knowledge of what her brother has done.” He stared into the darkness past the fire. “I had no intention of informing your relations. I did not assume you would care about any of them enough to maintain a correspondence.”

Two-Colors was watching as well, sitting up straighter as she listened to J'hazarr. Was it better or worse that he was trying to talk to the Imperial? At least the big man did not seem about to be consumed by the frightening rage she had seen earlier in the day.

“I care just enough to do that much,” J'hazarr said quietly. He turned his face away from Rullus, away from the fire, keeping his eyes on the ground. _I should have kept my mouth shut. I'm only antagonizing him, and for what?_

“Excuse me. I'll take my turn at the river.” J'hazarr stood abruptly and stepped over the log. He was half blind for the several moments it took for his eyes to adjust to starlight, but he could hear the gurgling rivulet and then he could see the stars shining against the stream of black as it bubbled along. The world slowly brightened. A thin smidgen of cloud glowed luminously silver, backlit by Secunda. Masser was a dark disc, but effulgent wisps of magicka leaked out from the stars. Their pinks and reds and violets mingled with and reflected against the smokey gray clouds, and behind them Aetherius glittered on the other side of the pinholes. It was unspeakably gorgeous, but J'hazarr felt only foreboding when he glanced skyward.

He crouched down by the water, arms folded loosely on top of his knees, tail curled in an arc around his shoes.

_You've run all these years and your guilt has finally caught up to you. Who knew it would take the form of a man?_

_What can I ever do to make it right? I've tried and I've tried, but no matter how much I kill I never feel that I've been absolved! I know that Rullus will feel the same emptiness if he ever does kill me, but is that beside the point?_

_He won't kill you. He's too damnably good. He might be in denial now, but he will believe your story._

_I inherited all that I am from J'hazarr. His body. His strength. His magicka. I like the same foods that he liked, damn it all! His past is also mine – how can I say it is not, when I can cast the spells he worked so hard to learn? How can I be J'hazarr the battlemage and deny that I am also J'hazarr the murderer?_

He dropped his head into his hands, eyes still open, still staring blankly at nothing.

 

* * *

 

Idrasa watched the Khajiit's back disappear into the dark, listening until the whisper of shoe against grass faded away.

“At the risk of picking open an old wound, I feel I should know what it is that Khajiit has done,” she said in a low, measured voice. She wasn't sure how well an Ohmes-raht could hear compared to other Khajiits. She looked at all of them in turn. “I don't want him along if he's dangerous.”

“You wanted him along _because_ he's dangerous,” Two-Colors snapped, tail flailing once behind her. “Same as the giant asshole in the ebony armor. And I told you, MY J'hazarr has done none of that.” The Argonian tail was not the same as a Khajiit's. Thicker, with fewer bones, it did not move as easily; as a result movement was not subtle and generally did not manifest without very strong emotion. Not everyone knew or noticed that, of course.

“Easy, girl,” Adrian said mildly. She glared at him, firelight reflected in the yellow eyes. Rullus watched her, still not sure what to think. He did not rise to insults directed at himself. He hadn't even when he was young and ignorant and a farmer out in the middle of West Nowhere, Cyrodiil.

“Fourteen years ago I lived in a small village in Cyrodiil called Lambing Green,” Rullus said. His tone was measured, slow. “There were about thirty people there in total. I had a wife called Olivia, who was with child.”

Two-Colors' tail subsided as she looked away. She didn't want to hear it, but covering her ear patches would be childish.

“Someone poisoned our water supply while I was away taking wheat to Chorrol to sell,” Rullus continued. “All who drank were plunged into an unnatural sleep, unable to wake. Nightmares subsumed them. A priest came from Skingrad but could do nothing; they were trapped and tormented in Vaermina's realm, sacrifices to the Prince. As they died in that place they died in our world as well. Olivia was already gone when I came home. I buried her, spoke to the survivors and the priest, and then I rode out. It was a long road to finding out who it had even been, but at last I began to track J'hazarr and the orc Morga. I never found her – he has told me that he killed her – but I've traced him across Cyrodiil and around the province of Vvardenfell ever since. I have done other work as well, of course. This armor was not purchased.”

When he had passed the part she did not know, Two-Colors quietly tucked her legs behind the log, slid off, and softly padded away to look for J'hazarr, her face burning. She could not have followed footprints in the dark, but he was easy enough to find by scent, and then she saw him crouched by the river, face in his hands.

“Hsst,” she said quietly, patting a foot against the ground to make a small _phut_ noise, and crept up beside him, shoulder resting against his arm. She was poised to dive away if he took a swing at her, but at this point she didn't think that would happen.

J'hazarr lifted his head from his hands but did not look aside at Two-Colors. He felt stupid; he'd run off like a child, and she'd come after to console him. It felt odd knowing someone cared enough to do so. His friendship with Two-Colors had not been inherited from a past life. She was uniquely his, and he need not feel any guilt that he was somehow tricking her. This, too, created an odd sensation.

“I doubt I'll be killed, but if it did happen... if you were to find my sister, Shadazi, and tell her you were a friend of mine she'd see to it you were taken care of,” J'hazarr said quietly, resisting the impulse to reach out and pat her arm. “She lives just outside Leyawiin. That's the largest city along the coast of the Topal Bay.”

Two-Colors looked around warily to see if anyone was watching, nostrils flared for any strange scent. The others were all still back at the fire. She turned and tucked her face down against J'hazarr's arm for a second, eyes pressed shut tight, huffing warm air against his sleeve. J'hazarr stiffened momentarily at her touch, but then she felt his bones go soft. She turned to look down at the water, curling her tail gently around his legs without touching. He let his tail unfurl from its position around his feet to sit inside the arc of Two-Colors' fatter tail.

“Imagine me going to a fine lady and saying hello, I knew your brother,” she said softly. “I stabbed him twice and one time he saved me from freezing, the crazy bastard, and we fought against people you can't even imagine here in your nice drawing room. I don't think even I would believe me. So you'll have to just not die. Only solution that really makes sense.”

Two-Colors was ready for him to do something, but she wasn't sure what. What was supposed to happen, with someone you weren't afraid to touch? She held quite still as he put his arm around her, right hand to her right shoulder, and for the first time the instinct to bite him and run away faded almost at once. She felt... warm. Fluttery strange feeling in her stomach. As he squeezed her she laid her head against his shoulder. It just seemed like the right thing. It felt like... Two-Colors had never really had a home, never. But this seemed like what a home should feel like.

“Perhaps omit the part about the stabbing, then. But I don't plan on getting killed. I just want to be sure you'll be all right,” he said, gazing softly down at her. Two-Colors was a good kid – _not a kid_ , he had to remind himself. _Just immature, inexperienced, and overconfident, like you used to be._ He smiled wryly at that.

She sighed, tilting her head to direct one eye upward without breaking contact.

“I'll always be all right,” she said. “Whatever I have to do. But I want you to be there.” She shut her eyes. “I don't – this is new to me. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong.”

His smile broadened. In a single moment beauty and light and color had been breathed back into a drab world.

“Nah, you're doing it perfectly,” he said. “There's no wrong way to hug someone.” Maybe this sensation was something the old J'hazarr had known – certainly he had memories of hugging family members, of holding Morga. But this moment was more solid, more real, than anything he could remember. It was more precious. The heat at his side warmed him inside and out. He brought his palm to the back of her scaly skull, patting her lightly and then letting his hand rest against her, holding them together.

She did not let people touch her head. It surprised her, but she held still, feeling a small shivery nice feeling where his hand touched her. It left her feeling more relaxed, calm. Safe.

Two-Colors snaked an arm around him, ever so slowly, small scaly fingers pressing around his waist. She could just about reach and still keep her head where it was. She had thought of him as that big bastard right up until she knew his name, and even now that thought popped into her head every so often. There was something very satisfying about being this close to the warm living density of him, now that she wasn't afraid. She could feel him breathing. She wasn't quite placed to hear his heart, but she was very aware of all of the smells: flesh, slightly sweaty. _Cloth. Rust from his broken armor. Clinging hint of sewage, unpleasant but ignorable._

She'd called him _my J'hazarr_ at least once. Maybe she ought to think about that.

“I'll be around. I promise,” he said firmly, turning his gaze back to the water, content to sit with Two-Colors at his side for as long as she would tolerate it. Nothing good awaited them in these coming days. He wanted this moment to last.

_Maybe not,_ Two-Colors thought. _He can't keep that promise and he knows it. Even if Rullus keeps acting like he's acting now, there's these cultists. No, take this and have it for as long as you can, and don't let anything ruin it._

So Two-Colors stayed there, J'hazarr's arm around her, her arm around him, feeling the heat from his tail radiating against the inside curve of hers. Even with everything that had happened, it was the happiest she had ever been. It was a quiet night, the water's noise soft enough not to cover the approach of any enemy.

Nothing could last forever. Eventually she started to get a cramp in her left leg and was forced to shift position, straightening her back. She sighed reluctantly, blowing air through her nostrils.

“I guess we better go back.”

“Yes,” J'hazarr said, quite calmly and evenly. He felt fully composed now, ready to face Rullus again. At least, he was ready be near Rullus and pretend the big man didn't exist. He'd been stuffing his guilt away into a little hidey-hole for all these years; surely he could keep it in there one night more.

_Get through this. Get Two-Colors to Cyrodiil. That's all that matters._

J'hazarr unwound his arm from around the Argonian and stood, holding out a palm to help haul her to her feet.

 

* * *

 

“The Argonian,” Rullus began, back by the fire.

“Two-Colors,” Adrian said gently. The Imperial sighed.

“Two-Colors says, and J'hazarr confirms, that the Ohmes-raht I've been tracking is not the original, that he was a duplicate created with the Skull of Corruption,” Rullus said. He spoke slowly, reluctantly; saying it out loud was certifying that he thought it true, and that hurt him like a knife in his guts. “That he killed the original shortly after he was created. I've never put lying past him, but there are things that corroborate that story. They committed their crime for some great reward. It was too carefully planned to be just a casual cruelty, and I found no evidence that either would go to the effort just for entertainment, especially when they did not stay to see the results. An artifact of such power would explain it, and also would explain Morga's sudden betrayal.

“They were never seen together after the sewers where this should have happened. J'hazarr's behavior changed suddenly, and has remained altered for all of the intervening time. He has hunted cultists of many Princes across two continents and I have never been able to find evidence that he ever kept a greater artifact for himself – you may be certain I sought it. I didn't realize he was destroying them.”

Idrasa listened first with furrowed brows, her expression gradually softening. Her eyes followed the Argonian as she left before turning back to Rullus. Her accusatory outbursts were annoying, but Idrasa was capable of remaining calm. The mission was more important than petty infighting.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she said gently, earnestly, before continuing carefully. “I appreciate how difficult this must be for you... Nelvil Urithas was a highly respected priest before his exile and he trusted J'hazarr. I am inclined to believe his story myself, as an outsider hearing all of the facts second hand.” That said, J'hazarr's very existence was sacrilege. She would not blame Rullus for choosing to end him when this was over, but she saw no reason to stir the pot by voicing that opinion.

Rullus was quiet for a long few seconds, staring past the fire at nothing. In the silence, Adrian coughed. Then Rullus said,

“Thank you. I wish to believe they are both lying, but I cannot convince myself that they are. Even so – J'hazarr and I have met three times and fought twice. I believe each of us is able to consider the mission first, I give him that much credit, but there is likely to be a certain amount of friction.”

“We'll get through it,” Adrian said. He was writing something on a piece of vellum with a pencil, a length of sharpened lead held in a crude tin frame; he sat turned slightly away from Rullus so that it could not be read. “They're neither of them green boys, to lose their tempers easily when there's work to be done.”

 

* * *

 

The fire was burning lower when J’hazarr and Two-Colors turned back, small yellow flames flickering over sullen red embers. It was easier to see Idrasa watching them over the top of the little fire.

“I'll take first watch,” she said as they approached. “I'll wake one of you in a few hours.”

“I'll go next,” Two-Colors said. “I'm not very tired.”

Next to Idrasa, Rullus grunted noncommittally. Two-Colors could see what he was undoubtedly thinking: he wasn't eager to have her or J'hazarr on watch at all, but he'd had a long run in heavy armor, part of it carrying another man. He was not fat, but he was physically large enough that just running under his own weight must tire him. And that was on top of fighting J'hazarr in the sewers and cultists in the canalworks. If he and J'hazarr had tried to fight each other right now they'd probably each swipe at the other one a couple of times and fall over.

_I bet I COULD stab him in his sleep._

_Don't try it. It didn't work with J'hazarr, it won't work with the big lunkhead._

“Thanks kindly,” Adrian said. “I'll go first tomorrow night, or next after that, whichever comes first. I'm not much of a sleeper myself.” The pale blue eyes watched Two-Colors with something of a bemused expression, as if he knew what she was thinking.

_Yeah. Definitely don't try it._

“Thanks, guys. Wake me whenever,” J'hazarr said, moving toward his bedroll. The Khajiit couldn't imagine falling asleep in close proximity to Rullus. On the other hand, he was exhausted to the point that even his tail felt too heavy to lift.

J'hazarr lifted the baldric off over his head and laid the sword out by his mat before lying down with his back to the fire. He heard Idrasa standing and stepping away, probably because staring into the embers would be too lulling. He laid awake with his eyes open for a long time, staring out at nothing with his blanket pulled up over his shoulder, listening to the other people rustling about and the occasional cough until they were all in their beds.

When J'hazarr finally let his eyes close he saw her, just as he knew he would – the pregnant woman in the blue dress, crowned with a halo of sunlight even though her house should have blocked the rising sun. Wisps of radiant light rose from her head, her dress billowed out around her legs although he was aware of no wind. J'hazarr heard the woman's heart beating steadily – he knew it was his own that he heard, in his ear pressed against the bed, but in his mind it was hers.

The memory was all twisted up, merging with J'hazarr's dreams as he fell asleep. He knew this, but he was too tired to open his eyes. He saw golden clouds, like a field of pillowy hillocks in the sky, over the house that had belonged to Olivia and Rullus. The sun darkened and the light reflected on the clouds turned purple-black, plunging Lambing Green into an unnatural night. A sick purple glow limned the houses, the well, the people – he was surrounded by people, some standing in front of their homes, in the yards, some lined up on the dirt path that led to the well. J'hazarr was seated on horseback and they all stared up at him sadly, although their faces were indistinct.

_I never returned,_ J'hazarr realized. _I knew what he had done to Lambing Green but I spent all of my energy taking my revenge from Morga. I never tried to help the survivors._ A deep grief tore through his insides and then it all faded away.


	17. Chapter 17: Morga

# Morga

 

**3E 416**

**The Imperial City sewers**

The fog of rage cleared instantly at the crack of skull against stone. J’hazarr’s fingers were still tangled in the other man’s hair, a crimson stain blossoming across his shirt. Morga’s torchlight gleamed against the hilt of the knife in his back. More blood trickled away below his face, pink and diluted by rainwater.

A fireball lit the tunnel, heat brushing against his skin. The spell missed him by centimeters. It singed his eyebrows before exploding against the wall. He didn’t even stop to glance at Morga on the other side of the sewer channel. J’hazarr ran.

His legs quivered like jelly, ready to give and spill him to the ground at any moment. Cold, ragged, panting breaths scraped up and down his throat, numbing him. Even as the black depths swallowed her light, Morga’s shouts followed him, bouncing hollowly against the walls. Then he was stumbling blind, gasping, nothing but pure animal terror driving him forward despite the agonies of his wounds. His foot landed on something disgustingly slick and shot out from under him. J’hazarr dropped to his knee. His fingers and toes were growing numb.

He must have crawled. J’hazarr later would not remember how he came to be wedged between a pair of crates. Wherever he was, he was so far from any grate that even those brief flashes of lightning failed to illuminate the tunnel. He was utterly submerged in cold and dark, as cold and dark as a grave. In flickering moments of consciousness he heard scrapes and growls and knew that he had to get himself to safety, but he could not will his body to move.

He must have lost and regained consciousness over and over again throughout the night, but J’hazarr was not aware of that. His first truly coherent thought was the realization that the tunnel had changed from black to grey, and that he could faintly discern shapes in the gloom. He was able to climb weakly to his feet, at first using a crate and then the wall to haul himself up. By inches and feet he groped along the wall, scraping his numb fingers raw because he had hardly any feeling in them, until finally he came round a corner and into a thin shaft of morning light.

Hours later the bedraggled Ohmes-raht arrived at the Arcane University, which housed the barracks of the Imperial Battlemages, after first staggering to an apothecary. The healing draught came too late to totally repair the damage wrought by Morga’s flames, leaving him with ugly scars. But he was alive, _alive_ , that was all that mattered.

He didn’t even return to the barracks to collect his belongings; the area was underpopulated during the day, and J’hazarr knew he must never be without potential witnesses so long as Morga held the Orb. She would know his location, always. He went directly to the stables to borrow a horse and rode hard for Leyawiin, stopping only for food and rest in packed hostels.

In the middle of the night on the fourth day of travel J'hazarr arrived at his family’s estate. It was a newly-built manse of sprawling, high-gabled wings, guarded by acres of carefully husbanded forest. His parents were shocked to find their son at home when they woke that morning – he'd sent no letter in advance, and brought no luggage – but they had always been obsequious to their dear little J’hazarr, and asked few questions.

Here, and here alone, J’hazarr would be safe. He surrounded himself at all times by guards and servants, and moved into a turret room accessible by a single stairwell. It was not totally impregnable to a mage of Morga’s ability and influence, but it was the best he could hope for.

Those days on the road J’hazarr’s blood had never stopped pounding in his skull; he was like a hunted hare, alert to danger every second of every day and unable to think of anything but his immediate survival. It was here in his turret room that J’hazarr finally had time to reflect on what had happened.

He’d been standing in the sewer, looking at Morga, the Orb of Vaermina cold and heavy in his palms. The next second his vision shifted and he was looking at _himself_ , the Orb no longer in his hands. The other J’hazarr held it. Rage unlike anything he had ever known washed over him, an intense, inexorable hatred that burned hotter than any flame. He was utterly incapable of reason until after that other J’hazarr had died.

And then he’d come home to strangers. A taupe-furred Suthay-raht burst into tears at the sight of his burned face and ran to hug him as soon as he appeared for breakfast that first day. Her appearance was more feline than J’hazarr’s, and she had long, brown hair dressed in plaits, her body soft and plump around the hips. J’hazarr remembered Shadazi clearly, yet he felt no sensation of familiarity as she approached him, pure adoration for her brother shining in clear green eyes. He did not love her, but awkwardly put his arms around her shoulders and squeezed her in the way he remembered he had always done.

He could clearly recall lazy days as children, catching turtles at the river. He remembered scraping his knee on a rock and holding back tears until Shadazi kissed it. He could not remember if the pain had made him sad, or if her comforts had pleased him. He might have been watching figures dance on a zoetrope for all the emotional depth his memories provided.

He remembered Morga; the taste of her lips, the heat of her body pressed to his. He’d bought her roses – she laughed and called him a sentimental idiot, so he didn’t do that again. He’d rearranged his schedule so that his free time would coincide with hers. Anywhere she went, J’hazarr made an excuse to be as well. His memories painted a portrait of a man hopelessly infatuated, and yet J’hazarr felt no positive emotion toward her. The thought of Morga filled him with an unshakable dread.

The truth was inescapable.

He was a fake. A clone. The real J’hazarr was dead in that sewer, by now gnawed clean by rats. Just a mass of hair and bones and blood-soiled clothing. Did this J’hazarr even have a soul? How could he? How could one soul share two bodies?

J’hazarr could not remember love or pride or excitement. He’d been robbed of every meaningful experience. He had no time to commiserate over this; terror filled his every waking moment. Why had Morga tried to kill him? He’d have given her the Orb gladly if only she had asked! Was she now going to find a way to finish him off?

Two weeks into his self-imposed exile, his worst fears were realized. J’hazarr received a letter.

 

 _Dearest J’hazarr,_ it read.

_It was with deep dismay that I learned of your resignation from the Legion. You went away so quickly, leaving much unfinished between you and I. I can see you now, pacing your little room at the top of that lonely tower, looking fretfully down at the grounds below - ah, but I wish I were there in person to comfort you, my sweet J’hazarr._

_A pity about your face. But then, I’ve always been able to see so much more in you, haven’t I?_

_Shall I come to you, or you to me? Our meeting is inevitable, so let’s finish that business of ours sooner rather than later. I hope you shall not go astray – seek another, and I will surely know._

_All my love,_

_Morga gra-Lumgrol_

 

 _I am watching_ was the thinly veiled message. If he reported Morga to the Legion, she’d have plenty of time to run – and anyway, J’hazarr would out himself as her accomplice in the poisoning of Lambing Green. If he tried to kill her first, she would foresee any preparation he could make. She had intimate knowledge of all his abilities and would plan to counter them in advance. The only offensive spells he knew were burden and absorb health, but approaching her meant being hit with silence and fire.

His only hope was to surprise her with something new – but how could he? If he bought an enchantment or a potion to aid him, she would know it.  Of course Morga couldn’t possibly watch him every hour of every day, but how could he know when he was safe? He couldn’t stake his life on a guess.

J’hazarr fretted for days. He paced his turret room, just as Morga had described. He was terrified to leave the estate; to pass those walls was unthinkable when any one of Morga’s cultist friends might be hanging around Leyawiin, waiting to finish the job. He could barely eat or sleep, and Shadazi’s attempts at fussing over him were nothing to J’hazarr but a guilty annoyance.

The answer came to him as he was penning a letter to some concerned acquaintance from the Legion, sitting at the desk he’d had brought up to his room. The quill slipped from his fingers and rolled across the desk before dropping to the floor. He turned and kicked it with his foot; it rolled under the four-post bed in the center of the room, leaving a dribble of ink behind on the carpets. Rather than try to retrieve it, he simply plucked up another pen.

There was only one spell J’hazarr could fathom using to defeat Morga if he saw her. It was nearly invisible and could be used from a distance… But he was terrible at it. The spell was considered useless to a fighter, so he’d never tried very hard to master it.

Days passed, and to all appearances J’hazarr had become a nervous ruin. He ate less and less. He grew pale and thin, and spent hours confined to his bed, tossing, muttering, sweating. He wrote to Morga again and again, begging for her to spare his life, but each time he destroyed the letter without sending it. There was no use.

Shadazi came to him. She would sit at his bedside, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth, brows furrowed as she sadly watched him.

“Please tell us what’s happened, J’hazarr,” she softly begged, and J’hazarr saw unshed tears glittering in her eyes. 

_She loves me so much, but I feel nothing for her. The brother she loved is dead because of me._

“I’ll be fine,” he croaked, eyes flitting quickly away from her beseeching gaze. He could never stand to look into those eyes for long. “I only need a few days of convalescence. A few more...”

A month passed. J’hazarr appeared to be reaching his breaking point. His parents had sent for Cyrodiil’s most learned healers from Guild and University alike, but J’hazarr locked himself in his room and refused to see them. _They’ll know,_ he thought. _They’ll know I haven’t got a soul._ But now the time had come, and J’hazarr would not hide anymore. It was time to pen his letter.

 

 _Morga,_ he wrote, sitting hunched over his desk, face framed by the unkempt tangle of his hair.

_We must meet, and one of us must die. If it will be me, then so be it; I can live like this no longer._

_East of Leyawiin there lies a pile of old stones that were once an Ayleid tower called Casawyl. In six days time, on the tenth of Second Seed, I will be there. Let us meet in daylight, alone, and settle this finally. Do I even need to send this letter? I’ll keep it on my desk. I’m sure you’ll read it._

 

He did not say good-bye to Shadazi. He left early on the appointed morning, riding the horse his parents would miss least if it were to be killed. He wore no armor.

The ruins of Casawyl could hardly be called ruins; it really was naught but a pile of bleached stones on a hill commanding a fine view of the surrounding meadow. J’hazarr had picked it as a meeting place because there was nowhere for an accomplice to hide without using invisibility – but being a mage and a Khajiit, J’hazarr was likely to sense anyone unseen if they came close enough.

He left his horse at the edge of the forest and strode into the grassy plain, still dewey from the previous night. The sun warmed his face; the grass sighed and flashed in the perfumed breeze. It was the first time J’hazarr had walked in sunlight since his journey home, and now the natural world filled him with a sort of awe, as if he were seeing it for the very first time. He wore leather riding breeches and jerkin, and carried a steel shortsword on a baldric.

Before him rose a gentle slope. From his vantage point the white stones at the top were invisible, hidden in the grass, but as he neared he saw her.

_Morga._

The orc was sitting calmly on a slab, knees pressed primly together, clasped hands cupping one knee with her fingers laced. She wore a grey satin robe, a handsome paisley brocade trimming the hems. She appeared to be unarmed, although as J’hazarr drew nearer he saw the Orb at her feet. Her hair was tied back with grey ribbon.

Her body was angled slightly away from him, but she turned her head as he approached. Her fat lips twisted into a mocking grin as J’hazarr came to a stop some ten feet away, just at the point where the plateau began to slope. Far enough that he could hurl himself away in time if she should cast a fireball at him.

“It’s been a long time, _lover_ ,” Morga said, then husked a laugh. She rose to her feet unhurriedly, smoothing out her robe and then leaving her hands clasped in front of herself. J’hazarr’s stomach turned. Had he really loved _this_? “I was stupid to assume things were finished between us the last time – but it was so dark, and even the Orb’s usefulness has its limits. Still, I should have been more thorough. It’s not a mistake I will make again.”

“You didn’t bring the Staff,” he observed, unflinching.

“No.” She turned her body to face him but made no attempt to close the distance.  “I’ve had plenty of time to play with my new toys, to test what they are truly capable of. I’ve found that the Staff won’t work on a copy.”

J’hazarr grunted noncommittally. He could sense her aura, burning bright as a funeral pyre in the dead of night. She’d taken a potion to enhance her magicka. J’hazarr had done the same. He felt it now, surging in every fiber of his body, impatient for release. The mingling of their auras raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“What is it like, I wonder?” Morga continued, grinning darkly at him. Knowingly.  “You know his memories, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have come home. To his home, I mean. Do you suppose you’ve got a soul?” Something about the way she said that suggested to J’hazarr that she already knew the answer. An icy tingle shuddered down his spine. His fist clenched, every muscle in his body growing taut.

“If either of us is soulless, it’s you, Morga,” he said from clenched teeth. It was a lame reply, and she laughed with genuine mirth.

“Really?” she said, and began to step near him – not in a straight line, but circling, like a vulture. “I got my hands on some black soul gems recently, while I was testing the artifacts. Did you know that when the clones die –” Morga’s wrist flexed, and J’hazarr threw himself aside as he felt the magicka discharge. The spiraling green light of her silence whirled past him as he came up from his roll, and J’hazarr flung his own magicka at her.

Not with his hand. He called his spell with the smallest twitch of one finger, shaping magicka into a thin wire, invisible except for the violet glint when it connected with her neck and snapped Morga back. She stumbled, fingers flying to her throat, digging, prying. J’hazarr advanced up the slope, hands clasped calmly behind his back.

He did not feel calm. Blood thundered in his temples. His nostrils flared at the stench of fear. Morga dropped to one knee, still clutching at her neck.

She made a sound that was half hiss and half choke, spittle flying from her twisted lips. When he was closer, the orc slashed a gout of flame at him, but the attack was clumsy and J’hazarr neatly stepped aside. He circled around her while Morga wasted all of her magicka flinging spells at him with one hand and attempting to claw at the noose round her neck with the other.

Her face had twisted hideously, beyond all recognition: eyes bulging and red rimmed, cheeks turning purple, jaw working stupidly like that of a flopping fish. Drool ran down her chin. J’hazarr nearly faltered when he ended his circuit and stood at her feet. Never in his life had he witnessed anything so ugly, but he steeled himself, hardened his face and forced himself to watch her suffocate. She no longer made any effort to attack him. She was panicking, clawing bloody gouges in her neck with her own fingernails, but J’hazarr pressed harder. His magicka was nearly gone; this needed to end soon. The ugly choking sounds were slowly trailing off as she sagged.

“You must have been watching me all this time, but you never did bother to look under the bed, did you?” he asked as the body finally slumped over backward. Her arms dropped from her neck, but J’hazarr thought she was still alive, just too weakened to claw at her neck anymore. She was still twitching.

“I had a month to practice, you know,” he said softly. “Rolling that pen back and forth under my bed – not an easy task, when you can’t even see what you’re doing. Telekinesis was always my worst spell.” He shrugged. “But it’s not anymore.”

He felt her aura fade just as his own magicka ran out, leaving the corpse with a bloody line across its neck where he’d pressed his spell. He stood there for several long moments. A coldness crept into his gut. His head buzzed. Then his legs gave out and J’hazarr dropped to one knee, trembling, chest heaving, eyes open wide but unseeing.

_What have I done? I killed another person so easily!_

_You did what you had to do. She would have murdered you._

He did not know how long he knelt in the grass beside the corpse before he was aware of his surroundings again. His innards still quivered as J’hazarr picked himself up and moved away from her, to the Orb Morga had left near the stones.

The Orb was cool to the touch despite the warmth of the day, its color a deep violet that was almost black. He saw himself in its slick dark surface and did not know who he was. Some soulless monster, perhaps, inhabiting the body of a mer named J’hazarr.

He spoke not a word. He didn’t even need to concentrate. The center of the Orb brightened until he could make out a tiny image.

 _Vontus_ , he realized. The Imperial was one of Morga’s friends, a fellow worshipper of Vaermina. J’hazarr watched him strolling in the market district of the Imperial City. The image collapsed into mist and reformed on a Bosmer woman that J’hazarr vaguely remembered being introduced to. He knew she was a cultist also, but he did not know her name. She was listening to some lecture at the University, scrawling notes with charcoal in a book. One by one the Orb showed J’hazarr every member of the cult Morga had belonged to, even the ones J’hazarr knew extremely little about.

The Orb knew his heart’s desire without J’hazarr ever having to express it.

Lastly, the image shifted to Leyawiin, to a street J’hazarr recognized. The image grew larger and clearer as if he were moving toward a building, an inn, and when the image changed again he saw the Staff of Corruption leaning against the wall of a tiny bedroom. A cold rage suffused him. This tool birthed the monstrous entity he was cursed to live the rest of his life as. This weapon killed Shadazi’s brother.

Every last one of them. J’hazarr would find a way to destroy them all. Every last cultist. Every last artifact. He did not care if he should die in the process. What did it matter, when he had no soul to endure? Wasn’t that what Morga had been ready to tell him?

If it took him the rest of his life, J’hazarr would make the Daedra and their followers pay for their evils in blood.

 


	18. Chapter 18

#  Chapter Eighteen

 

J'hazarr’s eyes blinked open to the pink light of a sunrise creeping along the horizon. The roobrush trees surrounding the camp were black in silhouette. J'hazarr felt stronger, more alert as the fog of sleep receded. Thinking of Morga the night before had made him dream of her, he thought, but the memory was fast receding. He slowly lifted himself with one arm. His hair was a pile of snarls on the back of his head, the inside of his mouth tasted awful, and his shoulder was a bit sore... but J'hazarr's magicka was back, and that invigorating sensation made up for everything else. 

He sat up slowly and quietly reached for his waterskin. He swished water around in his mouth, spit it out at the ashes, then took a second drink which he swallowed.

At the movement the Breton across the dead fire raised his head. He was sitting on the log where they had sat last night, and he had been sitting quite still, looking at the piece of vellum in his hands. It was closely written on both sides now in his spidery, shaky handwriting. He rolled it tightly and stuck it into the money pouch at his hip even as he lifted his chin and turned one hand palm-up in cordial greeting.

The rustling would not wake Rullus, who still slept with his back to the fire, left shoulder rising and falling as he twitched occasionally. There was a point of physical fatigue past which almost nothing could wake him. In the time Adrian de Faelencourt had known him he had achieved it twice. Two-Colors just curled up tighter in her blanket, only her nose poking out. She slept pressed so tightly against the other log that she was almost underneath it.

He was somewhat surprised to see that Idrasa hadn't slept in her leathers. She was face down on her bed, only the top of her black hair visible with her blanket pulled up, but her boots and armor were nearby. She'd probably want to get going as soon as possible, but J'hazarr didn't mind having some private grooming time without anyone else up and about.

Adrian did not seem hostile, not even in the guarded, passive-aggressive way one might more reasonably expect from that particular race. And indeed, he felt no particular hostility toward J'hazarr. He had long been curious what sort of person could occasion such dogged pursuit in his friend Rullus, and now, knowing the truth, he felt only the same melancholy that suffused most of his reflections of late.

“ So you're the unlucky bastard who had last watch,” J'hazarr grunted, dragging a hand over one side of his face. 

“ I don't mind,” said de Faelencourt, sitting up slightly straighter. His eyes unfocused for a second when he moved, as if looking at something beyond J'hazarr, and he coughed; but he came back to the Ohmes-raht's face with an expression of mild curiosity. “As I said, I am not much of a sleeper. I am somewhat surprised that you would choose to speak to me.”

“ I... hrm.” J'hazarr faltered, glancing away from Adrian as he jammed the stopper back in the waterskin. He reached behind for his bag and dragged it onto his lap so he could rummage around for a brush. It was good to have a distraction, a reason not to look directly at the Breton.

“ I'm sure you're a good man. I'm sure Rullus is, too,” he said, quietly, so as not to wake any of the others.  _ I was being an ass last night _ . His anger had been misdirected toward a man whose every action was ultimately noble and completely justifiable. J'hazarr knew that.

"Not I. I've never been worth much."

“ You weren't  _ there _ , were you? You don't strike me as a provincial sort, but on the other hand, neither does he...” J'hazarr carefully lifted his eyes to the other man's face, outwardly neutral but inwardly anxious that Adrian would turn out to be another person he had harmed. His ropy tail flicked softly once.

The Breton's eyes flickered, following the movement of the tail. He smiled very slightly, looking into J'hazarr's face. The eyes moved again, briefly, as if he were looking for something.

"No. We met years later, at a nasty little inn in Bravil. Originally he offered me brandy in exchange for improving his diction. You see, he  _ did _ speak like a provincial back in those days, and he knew doors were closed to him because of it." He spoke very softly, his voice rough and scratchy in its lower pitches. "He hasn't needed that sort of help for some time now."

J'hazarr hiked a wiry eyebrow. He'd thought maybe Adrian was some sort of tracker, or an alchemist, or had some other indispensable skill. He'd never involved himself in combat that J'hazarr saw and obviously wasn't a mage, so why did Rullus keep him around? J'hazarr decided that was probably none of his business. He untied the twine from his hair and held it in his palm, then flopped the hair over his shoulder to brush out the snarls. The brush was unornamented wood, old and beaten up with frayed bristles.

“ I see. Y'know, if you're blighted you'd better get it healed as soon as you can. Your body won't ever fight it on its own like a normal disease. Let it go too long and you'll end up with crap like this.” J'hazarr pointed to his face, indicating the pockmarks that had once been blisters.

Adrian listened to him politely, eyes lingering on his scars.

"So you've been to that place," he said softly. "I wondered if perhaps you had. The girl is very protective of you." He looked over his shoulder at the Imperial, whose sonorous breathing made it clear he still slept. In the early light Adrian's hair was almost white, and his skin had a faintly yellow cast. The hollows of his face were deep, but not with present strain; everything in his bearing was calm, resigned, without tension.

J'hazarr's lips pulled sideways into a tight half-smile at the mention of Two-Colors, but that quickly faded as the man continued to speak.

"I appreciate your consideration, old chap, but I haven't got any sort of blight. Liver's fucked into a cocked hat, is what. There's not enough of it left for healing to be much use."

“ Oh.” The brush in his hand slowly lowered until it was resting on his thigh. J'hazarr looked past Adrian solemnly, forehead wrinkling briefly in concentration.

“ He doesn't know,” J'hazarr finally said. It wasn't really a question.

"He does not. At some point he will, but I hope not much before the end," Adrian said. "I didn't want him to leave me behind and come back - he would come back, it's in his nature - and find me gone as he found her gone." He continued to watch J'hazarr, thin wrists on his knees. "I tell you this because I believe you are what you both say you are. So does he, really. He just hasn't quite caught up to it yet. And then it will be just the two of you and her - if you all survive. I trust that you will."

J'hazarr dropped his eyes to the ashes. His posture mirrored Adrian's but he was stiff, his face suddenly bloodless. J'hazarr had often felt helpless against the machinations of fate, but never more so than in that moment. He wished for Rullus to find the peace J'hazarr had sought and never found, but Adrian was probably all that he had left in this world.

“ I'm sorry,” J'hazarr said quietly, inwardly ashamed that he had nothing better to offer. “I know he must be important to you. I... I'm just sorry.” The last words were spoken bitterly.

“ You needn't take it hard, friend, it's no fault of yours,” he said softly. “I drank myself to death some time ago, it just took some time to catch up. I used liquor to wean myself from potions, and then it just... stuck. I fell back from it gradually when Rullus found me, but it was too late.” His eyes traveled to the olive-green muzzle sticking out of the blanket over by the other log. “Just... I know you've been trying not to kill him all this time. I don't know all of your reasons, but I am grateful. I'm glad that she has a friend, as I had a friend. I hope she is more worthy than I was.” He stood up slowly, stretching out his arms, then coughed again, smothering the sound in his sleeve.

“ Well, I suppose we'd better wake them. We've far to travel.”

“ Yeah,” J’hazarr agreed blandly before standing to move over to Two-Colors' log, sitting down at the end nearest her feet. He wanted to say more, but Adrian was right. They didn’t have time to waste. He smiled sadly down at the lump beneath the blanket for a moment, thinking again of her warmth against his side. He knew he was lucky to have her.

J'hazarr thought of poking her, but the Argonian always seemed so guarded as she slept, so that probably wasn't wise unless he wanted to be bitten.

“ Two-Colors,” he said firmly. From across the fire he heard Idrasa mumble as she woke in response to his voice.

As usual when she first woke, Two-Colors held quite still, automatically, even though she now had no need to conceal that she was awake from J'hazarr. When she thought her head was clear she stuck it out from under the blanket, then immediately swore, squinting at the dawn light. “Xuth. Time to go?”

She scrambled free of the thick fabric, yawning. Across the coals, Adrian de Faelencourt crouched beside the enormous blanketed lump that was Rullus, murmuring to him. A baritone rumble answered him, and the Imperial sat up, running a hand over his bald head.

They ate a little, not much – Idrasa's rations had to stretch some way – and packed the camp as best they could. Two-Colors didn't know the first thing about covering her tracks, so she watched very closely as the Dunmer who claimed to be a Blade used a branch to wipe out the firepit and spread sand around where they had been. The men dragged the logs into a more natural-looking position, and then they all waded upstream a good hundred yards before they climbed out onto a bank to continue their way toward the Eastern shore. At least everybody's boots smelled less of sewage after that, though Two-Colors pitied anyone trying to drink downstream.

A deep channel or strait intervened between Vivec and the road to Suran, heavily traveled in its narrower stretches, but the bay at the mouth of it was vast. It would be easy for one Argonian to hide in one of its many flooded caves and inlets. The Dunmer explained as they went. They should approach their destination at some time close to dusk, allowing enough time to take a more circuitous route in case of pursuit. If she was sensible of fatigue it was not apparent, Two-Colors acknowledged grudgingly. She was no weakling.

Two-Colors felt all right, it wasn't her first short night; but she watched J'hazarr closely. He had been pale beneath his scars when he woke her up. Maybe he'd been talking to de Faelencourt, who'd asked for last watch. The Breton had already been awake when she was ready to turn in, sitting with his back propped on a log. It was more and more obvious something was wrong with him, but if nobody else was going to ask, she wasn't going to either. Maybe they already knew.

The particular cave for which they were bound was atop the old ruin of Sarazannal. As they turned more to the East the terrain grew sparser and dustier, brush giving way to scattered roobrush and an increasing number of trama vines. Occasional fiery red blooms glowed from the shadows. Two-Colors skipped around cutting thorns to put in her canvas collecting bag, using her now-ruined dull dagger. Once she surprised a kwama forager that was under a thicket of the fat gray vines. She dragged it out proudly to show the others with the dull knife still stuck in its forehead:

“ Hey, I found us some meat!”

The Breton and the Imperial both seemed surprised. Well, fuck them, she thought sullenly. She wasn't as useless as they thought she was. It wasn't her fault they'd been mostly underground when she was fighting the Dunmer. She conveniently forgot that it had been J'hazarr who had killed each of them, ruining his armor by spellfire in the process.

Otherwise the wildlife left them alone. They were a large and intimidating party, and Rullus' armored footsteps were solidly audible from some way off, crunching in the ash and sand, echoing more as they passed into rockier terrain. Even cliff racers, usually suicidally aggressive, veered off at the blinding glare of morning light on the black armor. A little dust and sand blew around them, forcing Two-Colors to fold her nostrils shut, but it never got really cold. She stuck close to J'hazarr just in case. They'd never freeze to death with the huge Imperial around if they all had to bunk up in a cave, anyhow. They'd just wish they had.

Eventually they climbed out of a short foyada as the stony ground began to become more sandy and pebbly. At the top of a small rise the group parted to left and right. In front of them stretched a beach, gray and seemingly endless, sand and ashes mingled with gravel. Skeletal trees stretched up near the water, and a few thin channels ran from the little hillocks down to the sea. Mud crabs sat like boulders in the sand here and there, occasionally shifting position to reveal a glimpse of a leg or a chitinous mouth part. To the South, off to their right, loomed a small cliff with a rough hollow under it, a reasonable place to camp.

Out at sea, beyond the sullen crash of the waves, towers of slimy stone stood upward from the water, seemingly unmoved. The shape of a dome could just be dimly seen in the murky depths. The shore must drop off suddenly not far beyond the wavelets. It was easy to recognize daedric construction. The stone had been cut into strange shapes, never rectangles, never any shape that seemed to make sense, but they still fitted together somehow.

Brush covered the series of dunes and hillocks to their left, to the North. That area seemed more likely to hide the entrance to a cave than any other.  J’hazarr felt no relief that they had reached their destination, only foreboding. If they were to be ambushed, it would be soon, and every time the Breton coughed he winced internally. An arduous trek like this one was no undertaking for the ill. 

“ That's Sarazannal,” Idrasa said, nodding at the dome. The wind blew chilly from the sea, pushing at Idrasa's hair and the small thin ponytail that Adrian wore. “The cave lies in the hills to the North. We will all go together to guard the entrance to the ruin, but Two-Colors will have to swim down and retrieve our ally herself.”

“ No,” J'hazarr said firmly. “I'm an alterationist. I'll be going with her.” He glanced aside at Two-Colors, although his face was hidden by the visor.  J'hazarr felt like an idiot in his battered armor. The helm was dented on the forehead; if he got hit there it wasn't going to offer much protection, and if he got hit in the back of the head any weapon would easily puncture the brittle rust. Still, some protection was better than nothing and he wasn't about to be caught in an ambush without it.

“ In your armor?” Two-Colors asked, raising a scaly brow-ridge. “Anyhow, you look threatening. I look small and harmless. As much as I like having you to hide behind, I bet he'll be a lot easier for me to find alone.” She said it even though she quailed at the idea of trying to hunt a fugitive of unknown abilities and possibly dubious sanity through dark water and daedric stone. Speaking underwater was not completely impossible, but it was hard to get much across, and whatever hand signals were used in the Marsh had never been taught her. She'd have to persuade him onto some kind of dry surface to even be able to talk.

“ I'd remove my armor,” J'hazarr offered lamely.

Behind Idrasa's head, Adrian and Rullus exchanged glances – the Imperial presently wore his helm back on its thong – but neither interrupted the argument. There was no question of anyone but J'hazarr even remotely being able to attempt it.

“ No,” Idrasa interjected. “Then we'd have to wait while you change into dry clothes and put it on again. We need to leave this area as soon as possible.” She was already heading the way down the slope, and J'hazarr grunted irritably as he followed. He was beginning to dislike Idrasa. What did  _ she  _ care if Two-Colors had to fend off slaughterfish or even dreugh by herself?

“ She's not wrong,” Two-Colors said. She lifted her muzzle as the wind from the sea blew a small gust toward them _ : water, salt, sand and ash, incredible mixture of alive/dead/wet/dry, something sweet and meaty that was probably live mud crab.  _ There was nothing she recognized as belonging to any sentient creature. If anyone had been here recently they had been below the tide line, and the water had washed their scent away. It's not surprising.  _ That's what I would do if I was trying to hide out here. And if someone as clueless about living outside as me can figure that out, anybody can. _

Idrasa carried her loaded crossbow at her side as she picked her way over the hills of grey volcanic rock, patches of short grass and scrubby brush growing in the sediment. She moved cautiously, looking in every direction before proceeding across any landmark. The others followed her trail as best they could.

The entrance to the cave was a shallow indentation at the base of a rocky hill. The hole was only about three feet tall and four wide, easily mistaken for shadow among all the boulders, crags, and brush. Furthermore, the swell of the earth hid it from view to the left and the right. A dead comberry bush, scraggly and leafless, stood guard at the mouth.

“ Would the two of you stand guard outside?” Idrasa asked Rullus and Adrian. She set down her bag near the mouth of the cave. “J'hazarr and I can check the inside, make sure no one else has been here.”

“ Let me go first. I can see best,” J'hazarr said quietly. He wanted to be useful for something. He set his bag beside Idrasa's and dropped to his knees to crawl inside. The bumpy roof of the cave scraped against his back at one point and he had to drop down onto his forearms to drag himself through. He was scraping up greenish-grey lichen with his vambraces, to J'hazarr's mild disgust. Two-Colors crept after him, trying not to let her nose bump into the soles of his boots. 

Inside, small blue mushrooms with white-dimpled caps grew in clusters, the craggy walls glistening wetly in their soft blue glow. The cave opened up such that J'hazarr was able to stand, barely – the ceiling scraped his helm, forcing him to stand slightly stooped. Two-Colors could stand much more easily. The path through the cave was long and wide, curving only slightly and sloping down into black seawater that lapped gently against the walls. A flattish mudcrab near the wall raised itself up on stubby legs and clacked its jaws together questioningly before tucking itself back into its shell. Two-Colors gave it a wide berth as she edged toward the water.

“ I'll be as fast as I can,” she said, fighting to keep her voice from becoming a high-pitched squeak. “But I don't know where he is down there, or if I'll have to argue with him, or what. Don't come after me unless it's been more than four hours, okay? I'd say don't do it at all, but I know you.”

She felt a small warm uncomfortable something as the words tumbled awkwardly out of her mouth. She couldn't even put a name to it. She'd never felt it before. So she just turned and waded quickly into the black water before he could reply, and in a moment she ducked down and vanished from J'hazarr's view.

It always took a few seconds to adjust to breathing water. She patted her way along the muddy bottom as it started to taper forward, letting her eyes adjust again as her nostrils also adjusted to filtering out the strong smell of the water itself. Then the ground vanished from under her abruptly, and she kicked out into open space.

She was not in the open sea. She was in a vast chamber carved from stone, stretching far down below her, the walls reflecting the slick and strange colors of daedric construction. The water muffled its alien scent. She could see the colors here and there because there were glowing fungi down here as well, little dots against the distant walls. As she dove slowly downward, kicking her feet and navigating with her tail, not drawing her dagger yet, she caught another scent drifting upward from below:

_ Another Argonian. Male. Not sick, but maybe not well-fed. No scent of any other thing that is alive. If there were ever slaughterfish he's eaten them all, I guess. _

She warbled a greeting in Jel, the only phrase she knew of the underwater version of that tongue, seldom heard and dimly remembered. The sound seemed to travel far and loud with that strange resonance that sound had underwater, and she winced at the noise of it. Two-Colors pulled up, treading water as she turned in place, heart thudding in her ears.

She had just about decided to keep going downward when a shape drifted upward from below, slightly to her left and several yards away. She laid one hand on her dagger, eyes huge, but it was a two-legged shape. He was very long and slim, thin-shouldered. She couldn't tell anything at all about his color in the very dim light, though his eyes gleamed faintly red. As he banked in front of her, tail curved gently to one side, she saw twin crests fan out behind his head like little wings. For a second she thought he was completely naked, but then he moved again and a scrap of cloth drifted in front of him. He wore a ragged breechcloth, just a piece of old fabric and a string.

He said something in Jel that she could hardly understand – it could have been a query as to why she was here, but she honestly could not tell. She tried to reply in what she knew of the regular above-water tongue:

“ Sorry, can't understand. Come up, please?”

The red eyes widened slightly in surprise, then narrowed as he looked her over again, crests furling. After a moment he shrugged one thin shoulder and nodded. Two-Colors turned to kick her way back up toward the cave entrance. About ten minutes after she had left she sloshed up from the darkness belly-down, blowing water out of her nostrils as she supported herself on her hands.

J’hazarr was crouching at the water’s edge, tail sweeping anxious arcs across the floor while he waited. He straightened as far as he was able under the low roof and took her by the arm the moment he saw her surface. Two-Colors let him haul her upright even though a week ago she would have bitten him. She could not have been gladder to see Sotha Sil in all his glory.

"I found him," she said redundantly, grinning at him.

“So you did. Good job, kiddo.” J'hazarr grinned back, heart jumping against his ribcage. He hadn't realized how tense he had been until the relief hit him. Two-Colors looked away, her face heating as she realized they were just standing there grinning at each other like morons while the others waited outside.

Behind her the twin crests surfaced first, each bony strut tipped with horns that were all blunt or broken, and then the narrow-muzzled head of the other Argonian. He did not come further yet. J'hazarr could sense what she could not, a magickal aura of startling power. He regarded the Ohmes-raht narrow-eyed as he exhaled water. His voice was rough and disused; the Marsh accent was there, but his Dunmeris was grammatical and fluent.

“ Who are you people, and what do you want?”

“ It's Idrasa Saalu!” the Blade called from outside the cave, leaning down below the lip of the entrance so that the Argonian could see her face. The sky behind her had begun to dim. “We've come to take you to Cyrodiil. Hurry, my friend. I'll explain everything as we travel.”

The Argonian sloshed up to his knees, crests snapping from half-mast to full quivering height as water rolled from his shoulders.

"What! Idrasa? You're still alive?" He slid past them and wriggled into the narrower section, quick and slick as an eel. Two-Colors crawled out rapidly after him. The two humans still stood to either side of the cave entrance, looking in opposite directions as they kept watch. "What about Callius, is he there too?"

Idrasa dropped down to one knee, laying the crossbow on the ground while she opened her bag. She paused, briefly, the muscles of her face tightening imperceptibly.

“No,” she said brusquely. “The same mer who seek you have killed everyone who dared support me. Callius, Eloe... The cultists covered their tracks well, implicating the Camonna Tong or others–” She shifted topics abruptly. “I'm sorry I wasn't able to come for you sooner. I've been forced into hiding with a group of dissidents in the Vivec sewers. If I had left their protection by myself I would have made an easy target.” She pulled a dull white robe from her pack, folded up neatly. It was not new, but it certainly smelled fresher than anything the lot of them currently wore. Got-No-Home was already brushing mud off himself with a handful of roobrush.

“ All gone,” he said quietly, crest furled down the back of his skull. Standing in the sun, he was pale, dull green, little hashes of pale rose on his cheeks and chest, tiger-striped on the outside of his legs and tail. Either he was naturally a very thin Argonian or he hadn't been eating well for some time. “I was wrong to hide. Perhaps if I had been there - ”

“ You'd be dead, and their sacrifice would be for nothing,” Idrasa said, shaking out the robe and holding it out to him.

Got-No-Home sighed, but did not argue, pulling on the robe and belting it around him. “Thank you. Introduce me to our new friends, Idrasa,” he said wearily, lifting his crest slightly as he looked at the huge Imperial in the ebony armor and the skinny Breton in the long skirts. Adrian bowed deeply, smothering a cough. Rullus just nodded his head.

J'hazarr was last to emerge from the cave, grunting laboriously as he crawled out on his belly. Grime streaked the front of his armor but he ignored it, going to his bag to pull out a blanket for Two-Colors to towel off with. She thanked J'hazarr breathlessly and hopped about drying off as best she could. The water below hadn't been so bad, but the breeze off the sea felt incredibly cold. 

When next she looked up, a small, single-sail boat was approaching the beach from the East. It was too far away to make out the details of the single occupant's face, but it appeared to be a Dunmer wearing dingy clothing and a broad straw hat. She eyed the boat warily. Was there much fishing out here? You certainly couldn't tell it by Got-No-Home, but maybe he'd eaten everything in the ruin and not wanted to fish further abroad. Anyway, one single Dunmer wasn't much of a threat to all of them together. It was probably nothing to worry about.

“ The little one who retrieved you is Two-Colors. This is Rullus Ennius, Adrian de Faelencourt, and J'hazarr.” Idrasa gestured to each in turn, pronouncing every name perfectly despite having heard some of them only once. J'hazarr lifted his visor and offered a perfunctory nod– it was only polite to let the Argonian see his face as he was introduced.

“ Always the little one,” muttered Two-Colors. She still felt the old resentment over that, but it wasn't as compelling as it had once been. It had been a long week.

“ Pleased,” drawled Adrian. He'd been wearing his hood up while they stood out in the sun. In its shadow he looked a little less sallow. Rullus had nothing to say. He had had nothing to say since that morning. He was still struggling with himself:

_ I know that this is not the mer I pursued. _

_ I FEEL that it is. How do I unpack fourteen years of burden and throw it away in a day?  _ He still couldn't escape the conviction that if he turned his back on the Ohmes-raht he would run or attack. He had slept at all last night only because he had no physical choice. He still felt sick to his stomach every time he thought about how long he had been asleep and unarmored near his old enemy.

_ Not my old enemy. The one who wears his face. He attempted nothing and he WILL attempt nothing, and you know the reason why. Perform the mission. Get free of him. Never see that face again. _

“They all know your story, Got-No-Home,” the agent said, picking up her pack and her crossbow.  She turned North to start their way across the hillocks, following the path of least resistance through the scrub. “We met only yesterday, but I saw in them an opportunity to finally get you safely out of this province. We'll make camp in the hills when we can go no further and by tomorrow arrive in Suran. From there we will charter a ship to Narsis; that will give us a long rest. We won't have to worry about cultist attacks on the water.”

J'hazarr picked up his bag and fell in behind Idrasa. He glanced back over his shoulder and noted that a boat was pulling in very close to the beach. That seemed odd. A fisherman had no reason to do so; there weren't any villages or even solitary houses out here that he had seen.

“ I don't like the look of that boat,” he said. Idrasa paused and turned back to look as well, narrowing her eyes.

“ I don’t either,” she said.

Two-Colors turned back toward the beach, nostrils flared. A puff of cold breeze wafted back toward them. She grabbed for her shockbite. “Oh, fuck. There's more than one Dunmer there!”

“ Agreed,” said Got-No-Home, raising his crests high, thin nostrils flared.

It was at that moment that they all saw the boat rock violently as the lone figure leapt from the boat and into the water, which came to his thighs. Giant splashes erupted at either side of the mer and trailed him as he sprinted to the shore. This was followed by little sprays of sand when invisible boots hit the beach.

“ Take him. Go!” J'hazarr said, dropping his bag and slapping down his visor. He wanted Two-Colors to go with Idrasa but knew it was futile to tell her so. He'd told her to run away every time and she never did listen. He grinned ferally, lips half closed over gritted teeth inside his helm – this was it, J'hazarr's final  _ fuck you  _ to the Princes – and sprinted back down the slope to greet their attackers. There were three altogether, two of them invisible based on the footprints.

“ We'll wait for you in Suran,” Idrasa barked. She grabbed Got-No-Home by the arm to tug him back. “With me, hurry!”

Got-No-Home swore under his breath in Jel, but let himself be pulled away. He knew a couple of words Two-Colors had never heard. That struck her as funny in the half-second before she turned and sprinted for the beach, running in a wide curve out to J'hazarr's left. No one's sense of smell was accurate enough to pinpoint an invisible person's location when they were moving. She'd have to go by hearing, by feeling for the moving air.

It didn't occur to her for one second to follow Idrasa.

Behind her she could hear the heavy slide of Rullus draw his sword. He was not running. His footsteps were quite deliberate as he moved down the slope, tapping his shield against his chest as he cast his magicka resist. Adrian walked beside him, rapier in his hand, head bowed beneath his hood.

The footprints in the sand were spreading out now. There was no real attempt to conceal themselves; there were clearly three people running toward them. Out of the hills, J'hazarr's boots pounded across the flat beach toward one set of rapidly advancing prints.

His hand clenched on the hilt of his sword and a nearly invisible skin of magicka shimmered across J'hazarr's body as he drew the glass from its scabbard. He could feel them now, two mages of incredible power, their auras pressing heavily down on him. The air before him wavered, distorting the beach and the sea beyond. J'hazarr's purple shield snapped into place just as the lightning crackled toward him and the distortion in front of him became a person. He was blinded by the light, felt the magicka sink into his armor after penetrating the translucent shell with no resistance. But the shimmered skin swallowed the lightning up, drawing the magicka into J'hazarr's own body. It felt like heated daggers stabbing into his flesh as he ran.

He was an Altmer dressed in Imperial-style scale armor and a nasal helm with an aventail. Like the cuirass, the mer's vambraces and faulds were plated with steel scales that shined bronze-gold under the setting sun. He still held out his hand, fingers splayed toward the Khajiit. That was all J'hazarr was able to see before he heard the  _ humm-whush _ of a summon materializing behind him. J'hazarr whirled to strike at the armored dremora instead. The dremora was already swinging a heavy mace toward his head. Two things saved J'hazarr's skull from caving inward when several pounds of daedric metal slammed into the side of his helm: first was the shield that killed some of the weapon's momentum, and second was that the mace hit him on the left, opposite the large patch of rust. The clang was deafening. Lights exploded in front of his eyes and J'hazarr side-stepped to the right in a momentary daze.

Off to what was now J'hazarr's right, a ball of green light exploded from the palm of the visible Dunmer. The blinding magicka hurtled toward Two-Colors as wisps of black magicka enclosed him and armor none of them had ever seen before settled over his entire body. The metal looked like steel, with flaring, upward-curving pauldrons. Strange engravings covered every surface of the armor – they looked like stretch marks, or shallow cuts. A bloodred hooded cowl enclosed the helm, leaving only the expressionless face of a steel mask visible. The same unhealthy organic designs were repeated on the mask, like a disease that had ruined the skin. A red skirt to match the cowl fell from below the faulds.

A daedric shortsword snapped into the mer's gauntleted hand next, and black light coalesced into a second dremora at his side. This one wore the black robes of a mage.

The third combatant – the one who was not a mage – ran toward Rullus still, marked by the heavy boot prints plodding through the sand.

 


	19. Chapter 19

#  Chapter Nineteen

 

Two-Colors dove forward into a roll, but the green sphere still kissed her left shoulder on its way past. The world went dark and blurry.  _ Oh, fuck. _ It didn't help that the black blur coalescing out of nothing in front of her was almost certainly some kind of daedric armor. There was a red smudge that might be a loincloth – maybe there was some small chance he didn't have a codpiece. She belly-crawled forward like a wriggling snake, dodging a kick, and dove forward between his ankles, slashing upward with the shockbite. The dremora mage could not attack her yet, not when she was so close to the Dunmer.

Two-Colors' blade did clack up against a steel codpiece, but the electric jolt shuddered across the Dunmer's body. He grunted as he pivoted on one foot, turning to follow the Argonian as she came out on the other side from beneath him, and stabbed down at her fat tail. He was afforded only a narrow field of view from the eye slits of his mask and the attack was approximate, where he expected her tail to be.

The shortsword passed through scale and muscle as though it had been butter. For a half-second it didn't even hurt and Two-Colors thought he had missed. Then she tried to whip her tail away and the blade ground against the bone, and she hissed in agony, the noise high-pitched and awful.

_ Stuck, it's stuck in the ground! _

She stabbed at his arm from where she now knelt, aiming for the patch of red fabric between vambrace and gauntlet. Why in the world they would leave almost the exact location of the artery uncovered was a puzzle to her pain-twisted mind, but she did not question it.

The Dunmer did not lift his sword from the ground but he jerked the hilt to the side to deflect Two-Colors' dagger with the crossguard. Two-Colors clenched her jaw around a scream as the blade that pinned her tail twisted. A stifled noise emerged from between her teeth completely against her will as she raised an arm to protect her head just in time to take the full impact of a daedric boot on her shoulder. There was a crack as the joint dislocated, and she was knocked back so hard that her tail tore free around the blade, spraying the armored Dunmer with a fine diffusion of arterial red. 

Unlike their tiny cousins, the tail of an Argonian held a sizable set of blood vessels, to power the thick muscles used for swimming. It was not accidental that there were not many of that species walking around tailless. Now she half-crawled away on her side, breath rasping in her throat. She'd never felt this kind of pain. It was so intense that it was almost a high, a horrible exaltation.

_ Even if the next hit doesn't kill me, in a minute I'll bleed out. I'm going to die. J'hazarr can't save me.  _ She couldn't even spare the time to look for the Ohmes-raht. There was always the chance that she might get one more hit before the end. Her shaking hand still held its convulsive grip on the dagger.

 

* * *

Rullus Ennius swung the sword in a broad arc in front of him, looking to either make contact or interrupt the other's charge. He could see by the slowness of the footprints that he probably faced another large body in heavy armor.

Rullus' sword knocked into a daedric battle axe with a rain of sparks. Shimmering air rippled across a figure that could have been a dremora: he was nearly as tall as Rullus, his helm a grimacing horned mask with a mane of red hair. Not a bit of skin was visible beneath the black daedric armor. The man growled and yanked the axe downward, trying to hook Rullus' sword with the heel of his axe blade.

As he had done in other engagements before this one, Rullus allowed his enemy to engage the blade with his own weapon – and stepped forward and slammed the shield at his armored face. He was not sure if ebony would dent the other metal or not, but even if it didn't, the concussion might still be able to harm flesh.

The big man in the daedric armor let the shield hit his face. He could do nothing to block it so quickly. He staggered back a step, letting Rullus' sword slide free of his axe and giving his head a shake as if dazed. Then he pulled his axe back to a defensive position across his body.

 

* * *

The dremora drew back his mace for another swipe at J'hazarr's head, snarling in heavily accented Dunmeris:

“ Kneel, caitiff!”

The Altmer in scale armor flicked a longsword from the sheath at his side, an audible slick noise from the silk inside the scabbard.

J'hazarr's ears were still ringing, his vision still fuzzed, but he brought his sword up just in time to meet the dremora's mace and shove the weapon away. He kicked out at the dremora while channeling magicka out through his foot – magicka in general and telekinesis in particular was so much easier to use if it could be focused through a single part of the body. The field he created was tiny, a thin ribbon less than a foot long, but he looped it around the dremora's boot and yanked forward. It was visible only as a quick flash of color, like metallic thread glinting in the light.

Then the Altmer's sword plunged into his back a few inches above his right hip. The shield of magicka slowed the blade's momentum somewhat, but the sword tore through the broad patch of rust on his cuirass as if through paper. For a moment that to J'hazarr seemed to last eons he stood with his back arched, eyes wide and mouth gaping, unable to breathe. A gasp finally tore from him and time proceeded. He spun the sword in his hand and stabbed backward while raising his arm to protect his head from the attack he knew must come when the dremora regained his footing.

J'hazarr succeeded in tripping up the dremora, and it was harder to keep balance in armor so heavy; the creature almost fell to one knee even as the Altmer gasped in shock. The glass blade had penetrated his breastplate in the abdomen, sinking a good couple of inches into the muscles of his belly. The daedra would not be off-balance long, playing the necessary step forward into a vicious backhand as he brought the mace up toward J'hazarr's head.

J'hazarr half growled, half panted – a desperate, strangled noise – and shoved his arm back to drive the glass blade deeper into the Altmer. He felt the movement of the mer's body through his sword as the cultist stumbled backward and a burn worse than fire drag through his innards when the Altmer pulled his longsword free. Heat gushed from the wound. The slit from which J'hazarr viewed the world was growing narrower, images doubling and blurring. He saw movement in front of his face. J'hazarr reached out to block the mace and their vambraces clacked together. He caught the dremora by the wrist and held fast.

The moment J'hazarr released the spell from his palm a blinding light burst from between their bodies and the Khajiit knew he had gambled and lost. The dremora knew it, too. The monster laughed harshly as J'hazarr's own life force, the life he had meant to absorb before the spell was reflected, flooded out from his body and into the dremora. J'hazarr broke contact at once to end the spell, but it was almost involuntary – his arm fell slack and he swayed on his feet while the world grew dimmer. He was distantly aware of another release of magicka at his back as the Altmer healed himself. He saw the powerfully bright spiral of blue reflected on the dremora's black armor as the spell curled around the Altmer's body. The mer's wounds closed completely and instantaneously.

“ I said kneel,” the dremora snarled and kicked J'hazarr in the belly. He stumbled backward, sword driving into the dirt behind himself, and then dropped onto one knee with a heavy clatter.

_ Am I going to die? _ J'hazarr wondered. The idea floated idly through his mind. A wave of dizziness knocked him sideways and he caught himself with his free hand. Then he winced as his helm was lifted from behind, sudden light stabbing into his eyes. The fresh air against his sweaty face was pleasant. Then J'hazarr smelled blood: his own, an overpowering metallic stink, and that of another. His eyes twitched up and he realized that blurry figure crawling across the beach was Two-Colors and the red smear staining the sand was her blood.

_ She's going to die, _ he realized. J'hazarr threw himself backward, releasing the glass sword as he did so. He did this just before the Altmer thrust his sword through the air where J'hazarr's head had been. His back hit the ground and J'hazarr reached out to grab the mer by both ankles, letting one last burst of magicka pour from his palms, the very last he had in him. The Ohmes-raht felt  _ this _ absorption take hold, felt his magicka sink into the mer and his life energy flowing back through J'hazarr's palms. The wound in his back was rapidly closing, organs squirming about inside as tissues regrew. The dremora stomped down on J'hazarr's belly hard enough to dent the flimsy, battered, rusted steel, driving his own cuirass into his gut, and again J'hazarr gasped in pain. But he didn't let go.

The Altmer wrenched one foot away while simultaneously stabbing down at J'hazarr's face. The Khajiit jerked his head sideways. The blade cut across his cheekbone over the older scar and speared into the sand. Although he could not see it, the dremora had raised his mace, preparing to beat down on J'hazarr's skull.

 

* * *

Adrian stepped behind Rullus to move to the left, pushing back his hood as he walked quickly forward. He had no aura of magicka. He had nothing but a rapier in his hand, and his unarmored robes were not particularly intimidating. Still – his face was calm, even bemused.

Behind him, a bolt of electricity crackled from the dremora mage to Adrian de Faelencourt. The Breton bared his teeth as the power played over his body, head to toe, but it hardly seemed to slow him as he suddenly darted forward, hems flying, and attempted to skewer the demon with the rapier. The dremora grunted in surprise at something the agent beside him had no time to consider. The Breton, to this point as null as Two-Colors, had suddenly developed the aura of a Destructionist, elemental, furious and raw.

The dremora mage turned slightly, and the rapier slashed through the belly of his robe, not his flesh. He grinned, showing yellow fangs, and leaned forward to seize the hilt and the Breton's hand, jerking him forward off-balance. Adrian's attempt to cuff him with the other hand split his knuckles and made no impression on the bony face of the demon.

 

* * *

Rullus was aware from his limited peripheral vision that J'hazarr and Two-Colors were both on the ground, and Adrian seemed to be grappled by the other dremora, a position that would be fatal for him quickly. The demon outweighed him by probably thirty pounds. Rullus pursued the armored warrior in front of him, hacking brutally at his head with the sword to draw the axe up so that he could try a kick at the inside of his enemy's knee.

The man declined to react as Rullus hoped: he shifted the axe to one hand and caught the orcish blade in his gauntlet. The blade might as well have been a butter knife for all the good it did against daedric steel. He twisted the sword aside and, with his hand held near the head of his axe, raked the axe across Rullus' shield in an attempt to hook it away. 

Rullus contested the strength of his arm against the other – and lost. The axe on the shield-edge added leverage that magnified the strength of the wielder, hauling the shield aside, and then he was looking at a black spiky helmet coming at his face. He barely had time to brace his feet before the impact.

He probably shouldn't have assumed ebony would be harder than daedric metal. The world literally blinked out for a second after the impact. The juddering sensation of his own knee hitting the ground was what snapped him out of it. He barely raised the shield in time to avoid having his helmet dented by the axe. The clash of daedric steel splintering ebony was incredibly loud and close, and when his vision cleared it did not clear completely. The foe standing over him was double, a pair of wavering images against the gray sky. He could see the other man shaking his head, pausing; the world around him was black at the edges.

The man in the daedric armor still had his fist closed around Rullus' sword when he hit the Imperial again, pounding down with the axe head still close to his fist as if hammering nails. He pulled back again and again, his hammering measured and steadily paced, each crack of daedric against ebony thunderously loud.

 

* * *

The dremora mage shoved Adrian de Faelencourt away from him with a fist in his solar plexus. The Breton stumbled, coughing and gasping in a way that seemed disproportionate to the blow he had received. He spat blood on the sand as he landed on one knee beside the Argonian.

Two-Colors struggled to push herself up with her free hand, but her legs felt made of wire and clay, stiff and unresponsive. She couldn't feel the latter half of her tail at all. Blood was still pumping from the deep slash about halfway up its length. She kicked one foot against the ground without effect.

The Dunmer cultist who had attacked her smiled into his mask.

“ Finish them, Qualoth,” he said. “The others need our assistance.”

The dremora called Qualoth raised his hands, baring his teeth in a feral grin of triumph as ice began to gather around his clawed nails.

 

* * *

The Altmer sagged suddenly and toppled forward over J'hazarr's body, not quite dead but too weakened to hold himself up. The dremora snarled a curse and yanked his own master up by the armpits, not handling him gently at all as he flung the limp body down on the sand, just to get him away from the Khajiit’s reach.

That was all the time J'hazarr needed to roll sideways, to get his hands and knees under himself, to struggle up onto his boots. He felt incredibly weak, muscles quivering across his entire body as they fought to hold him upright, but his vision was clearer now that his earlier concussion was healed. T wo-Colors and Adrian were both down on t heir knees in the sand, Two-Colors struggling to even crawl away from the dremora with upraised hands–

**_No!_ **

J'hazarr would never know how he'd done it. He thought his magicka was gone, could feel the bone-deep ache of its loss. But a thin, glimmering ribbon of light spiraled down around his legs and J'hazarr launched across the sand just as the dremora clubbed down at the back of his head. He felt its weight touch his hair, the serrated teeth of the mace's blades severing several copper strands that swirled in the air as they drifted down, but J'hazarr was gone.

He was yards away when his boot hit the sand a second time and J'hazarr hurtled at Two-Colors like a bolt shot from a crossbow, his arms open in preparation to scoop her up when next he touched the ground again. He was aware of no scent but her blood, aware of no sound but the pounding in his ears. He saw Two-Colors and nothing else; she stood in a circle of light fuzzy and dark at the edges.

 

* * *

Two-Colors lay looking into the end of the world. Time seemed to move very slowly as she watched the dremora draw back his upraised hands, ice gathered around his talons. She had time to think,

_ This really isn't how I expected it to end. _

And then she was flying. This also was not what she had expected death by blizzard to feel like. Then cold blasted against the tip of her damaged tail and she realized that one, she could still feel something from it and two, she had been protected from the spell by J'hazarr's body. She was held in his shaking arms. Over his shoulder she saw the tremendous blast of blazing, blinding white nearly blot out the figure of the Breton as he struggled upright.

Rullus Ennius, dizzy and wavering, had to choose between healing himself and trying to shove the man in front of him away. He was only certain of one of those actions succeeding. He clenched his fist inside his shield, teeth gritted, and called up the power. His head cleared just in time for him to be nearly blinded by the flash of white as the dremora's hands released a dreadful blizzard of ice.

It cleared to reveal Adrian de Faelencourt, swaying on his feet. Steam rose from his garments as ice so cold it subsumed instead of melted encountering the weak warmth of a cloudy day. Ice encrusted his eyelashes, whitened his hands and nails, filmed the surfaces of his eyes and the hems of his garments. The aura of Destruction had expanded so that it was detectable even to Rullus. A burst of adrenaline surged through his body and he jerked his sword free and surged up onto his feet.

Adrian turned his head very slightly toward the sound of ebony scraping on ebony. Flakes of ice fell from his lips as he smiled.

“ Better days,” he said. The gesture of his right hand was almost casual, but the lightning burst from it so hard that it knocked him over backward on the sand. It engulfed the dremora in crackling power  _ and then it leapt to the Dunmer. _ The air was full of the stink of ozone and hot metal and burnt flesh as the lightning chained from body to body without ever losing its connection to the first dremora. Two demons, one Dunmer, one Altmer and the surviving creature in heavy armor jerked and shuddered violently, able neither to dodge nor to resist the colossal outpouring of destructive energy.

 

* * *

__

J'hazarr felt the incredible cold at his back. Steam poured from the ice that had crystallized on his tail, in his hair. His boot hit the ground again, sand piling up along a deep gouge as he skidded to a stop. J'hazarr pivoted and leapt back toward the hills, toward the cave where he had dropped his bag. He didn't understand what was happening – another mage was present, his power so terrible that J'hazarr felt magicka thrum in his teeth, but J'hazarr hadn't seen anyone else. He didn't have time to piece together what this meant before a seemingly endless series of percussive blasts rang out behind him – CRACK – CRACK – CRACK – CRACK – CRACK – and then he was plowing through sediment with his knees, sparks flying and poleyns scraping against the rock beneath. He leaned back with Two-Colors pressed to his chest to protect her from the impact. That little body held tightly in his arms was the only thing that mattered.

Behind him the two dremora dissolved into sparks and three bodies twitched on the ground. Smoke rose from the corpses. The Dunmer's summoned armor had also dissolved and the mer-shaped thing left behind was a patchwork of char reminiscent of hardened magma. His skin was actually on fire in multiple places, the flames tiny and pale and flickering out. The steel scales of the Altmer's cuirass had slagged and fused.

J'hazarr bent forward to roll Two-Colors hastily out of his arms; comfort was irrelevant. His arms flew without conscious input and the blanket from his bag was in his hands, and then he was tying it around the Argonian's tail so tightly that her tail bulged on either side of it like sausages in a chain.

 

* * *

Fast movement, dizzying. Two-Colors let her head flop against J'hazarr's chest rather than try to hold it up. He had her. That was all that mattered. There was still pain, but J'hazarr was there and she was safe. She wasn't even bothered when he dropped her, though as the spell finally cleared from her eyes – just spots here and there now, she'd seen them before – she wondered why everyone had fallen down except the big Imperial. She couldn't smell much, for some reason. She was still trying to puzzle that out when something tightened hard around her tail above the deep cut, and a wave of sudden startling pain rolled her under. J'hazarr felt her stiffen, then go limp. It was not until then that her hand finally let go of the dagger. It rolled quietly into the sand.

Rullus sheathed his sword as he ran to drop to his knees beside Adrian, shoving back his helm, but he knew as soon as his gauntlet touched the body that it was too late. Even through the glove he felt the cold. When he turned the Breton over his eyes were still open, filmed with frost, a very slight smile still on his thin lips. He had been dead when he fell. Probably before he fell. The words he spoke had come from a man whose soul was already beginning its journey away from Nirn. Rullus would have liked that realization to come somewhat later than it did. There was no moment of shock or helpful numbness. Certainty burrowed into his guts, spiked and venomous and spreading agony as it went.

“ You never told me you could do that,” he said quietly, over the sound of armor pinging and popping as it cooled.

_ My only friend. Adrian is the only one who listened or cared after she was gone. I never deceived him. I knew that whatever I asked, he would see it done. And now he is dead and I never told him so. _

The Imperial's shoulders heaved silently as he stared down at the corpse of Adrian de Faelencourt. After a moment he slid one gauntlet from his hand and closed the man's eyes. It took some care. The lids were very stiff. And then, as pain twisted in his heart and became something ugly and furious, he lifted his eyes from the body of his only friend and saw...

J'hazarr, kneeling over the little Argonian back by the bags. Frost was even now evaporating from the remains of his pauldron, from the scales of her bleeding tail. She had been beside Adrian, but she was still alive. Adrian was dead, but she was still alive. J'hazarr had saved her and Adrian was dead and she was still alive. He could see her white throat flutter as she breathed.

Rullus pulled his gauntlet back on and shoved a fist into the ground to lever himself up. The world was red; but there was no hurry. There was always time.

He stood there a moment longer, looking down at Adrian. Then he tipped his helmet back over his head.


	20. Chapter 20

#  Chapter Twenty

 

J'hazarr was panting raggedly, eyes flicking urgently across Two-Colors. She was dying!

_ No, not dying, _ he realized, hoped, prayed to gods that had never meant a thing to J'hazarr. He unlatched his left gauntlet and ripped it from his hand to touch her throat, to feel the pulse throbbing weakly below the scales. He could see that she was moving, breathing, but he had to touch her, had to check. She was only unconscious. J'hazarr's vision was blurry again as he desperately turned aside, searching for anyone else's bags – Rullus, Adrian, one of them had to have potions! Then he saw the Imperial standing out on the sand, a ring of bodies strewn almost carelessly around him.

“ Rullus!” J'hazarr barked. His quavering voice fell flat over the beach. He wrung his hands, having nothing else to do with them. “Please, heal her, you've got to come heal her!”

The Imperial's right fist opened and closed as he looked at J'hazarr. When he spoke his voice was a deep rumbling snarl.

“ Oh yes.” He stalked forward and swooped down to slap his palm against the Argonian's chest, shaking her entire body. Power flowed from one body to the other, a faint blue spiral of magicka manifesting around his gauntlet. He was only in contact for about a second before he straightened up. “She'll live. She was nowhere near the blast radius. When you saved her did you take one single thought for Adrian? Get up, damn you. He saved you and her both and you might as well have killed him yourself.”

Two-Colors shuddered, eyes fluttering in momentary confusion as the wound in her tail crept shut. A deep scar was left behind, the scales never quite closing completely over where the flesh had parted. She was dimly aware of voices, of the vague idea that something was wrong, but it was hard to struggle up out of the fog. She still felt cold and heavy.

A dark rage tore through J'hazarr at seeing Rullus' rough treatment of the Argonian and he stood, his tail raising and bristling up behind him, fists clenched. His cuirass flapped as he moved – several straps along the side had broken and it hung awkwardly from his body, a misshapen hunk of rusted steel that could no longer be called armor.

J'hazarr was livid, but his eyes darted past Rullus to the bodies on the ground. His face fell and J'hazarr stared, gobstruck, as the facts arranged themselves so neatly and suddenly. The incredible power had been Adrian – he was Atronach-born, curse the gods! He'd killed every one of the cultists and their summons with a single powerful spell even as he died in the blast that had recharged his power. A bitterly cold dread washed over J'hazarr and he looked helplessly from the distant corpse to Rullus' face. The ebon helm hid the Imperial's expression but J'hazarr felt the rage, the silent grief.

“ I'm sorry, Rullus,” he said. He was stunned, his voice too flat to convey his true sorrow for what had happened.

"You're sorry." Rullus turned his shoulder to J'hazarr, shaking inside his armor, and went to pick up the ebony shield. It was cracked across the center, but not broken.

"You may not be him, but you're no better. Arm yourself, J'hazarr. We finish it now."

His voice was ragged but still very deliberate, rolling up from a place where he now felt certain it would never be warm again.

J'hazarr froze. His heartbeat was suddenly rapid and light, fluttery – he had no magicka, his armor was trashed. He couldn't even best Rullus when they fought as equals. Grief and shock numbed any terror he might have felt, but those words – nothing could numb the bite of those words. J'hazarr was utterly diminished. Rullus might know J'hazarr better than any man or mer alive ever could have. 

He was that monster if Rullus said so.

If J'hazarr ran he would be pursued, but he couldn't run – Two-Colors needed rest or at least gentle carrying, not to be jostled wildly about. And it would never end, even if J'hazarr could escape. Even if he never saw Rullus again. Each of them would know that somewhere in the world the other existed, and that deep grief would never be quelled.

And so J'hazarr bent down to pick up his gauntlet before stepping away from Two-Colors. He unbuckled the remaining strap at his side, then his pauldrons, and let his ruined cuirass tumble down from his body. He was left only with armored limbs as he trudged across the sand toward his sword. He held his chin up. His expression was flat; resolute, resigned.

Grey clouds streaked a bleakly grey sky, a single flare of color lying to the West. Magnus was a burning pinprick of light gently lowering itself below the foyada they had earlier crossed. The waves had grown choppy with a wind that brushed cold over J'hazarr's face, roughly moving his hair.

The corpses stank of burnt flesh and hot metal. J'hazarr avoided looking at the nearest charred husk as he bent to pick up the sword – but he did allow himself to glance further out, at the frosted corpse of Adrian de Faelencourt, the man who had saved his life and Two-Colors'. It was completely true that J'hazarr had not thought of him at all in that moment.

The weight of the glass sword felt wrong in his hand. He turned to face the widower, the father of a child who had never lived, the tip of the sword resting against the ground. J'hazarr had never felt so empty in all his life.

Rullus Ennius gripped the shield tightly with his left hand as he drew the orcish sword with his right. There were new scars on the blade from where the daedric axe had bitten into the metal near the hilt. It probably wouldn't take much to break it. He found that he did not care. The world was pain. He raged against the gray indifferent sky, against the tide gently receding as it would always do. He raged inwardly with a deep and bitter loathing for the stoic and seemingly indifferent figure of the Ohmes-raht.

_ I will make you hurt as I have hurt. _

It was not a prayer to Stendarr for justice. He was not thinking of the Divines at all as he lowered his shield and charged the Khajiit, pounding across the sand with complete indifference to the corpses of his enemies under his feet. The bones of a scorched hand crunched under his boot, a dreadful noise audible above the waves.

Rullus was aware that there was still magicka percolating under his skin, with the sizzling teeth-setting atmosphere that had been Adrian gone.  _ Gone, gone _ , repeated his mind, in a sonorous and maddening drone. He was even aware that his resistance had expired. He laid it aside with quiet scorn. If he could not defeat J'hazarr without magicka when the Ohmes-raht had none, when he had not even a cuirass, he did not deserve to live.

The absence of magicka was a palpable ache to J’hazarr, but there was nothing to be done about that. The Ohmes-raht was as good as naked; one good hit could be enough to end his life, but he did have a glass sword.

J'hazarr trotted to meet his attacker. He lifted the sword with both hands on the hilt and swung at Rullus' weapon with all of his might while pacing left to avoid being trampled – and then he spun, following the weight of his sword in an attempt to hit Rullus on the back of his helm with one continuous movement.

J'hazarr's blade met his in mid swing. Glass bit steel, and the orcish blade snapped off with a report like the crack of doom, leaving perhaps four inches of jagged metal sticking out from the hilt. Rullus hunched up his shoulder just fast enough to protect the back of his head. The impact was jarring, but not enough to knock him down, not enough to concuss him. He came to a halt in a couple of steps, swinging around ponderously to follow the Khajiit's movement.

J'hazarr was smaller than Rullus, but he was not a small man. With his full weight behind it the glass sword could probably pierce the ebony where it was thinner. Not the pauldrons, not the knee guards, but probably on the vambraces and the broader portions of the cuirass. Rullus was aware of the facts, but facts lived in a dim and distant place away from where he now was. He flipped the remains of his sword into a downward-pointing grip even as he tried to backhand J'hazarr with the cracked shield.

J'hazarr raked his blade across the shield as he danced backward, glass screeching against metal and throwing sparks. He would whittle Rullus down if he had to; carve away his sword, his shield, his very armor until J'hazarr could hew the flesh from his bones.

_ You've taken everything from this man! Everything! What's one more thing? _

Low, hesitant rumbles began in the dark clouds gathering over their heads, soft flashes lighting their bellies. Only a narrow band of foggy gold lit the horizon; the hills had snuffed out the sun. Darker still was the blackness that grew inside J'hazarr's breast. The sin he carried was too heavy to ever escape. After a lifetime of running – not from Rullus, but from the guilt J'hazarr tried to convince himself was not really his – he was done trying.

Rullus pursued, eyes cold and narrow inside his visor, suddenly faster than seemed reasonable.  _ Close. Crush him. Take whatever comes.  _ He slashed at J'hazarr's chest with the broken sword, right to left diagonally, and followed by jerking his armored knee up toward the Ohmes-raht's gut without waiting to see if he had connected. 

_ You knew what the other J'hazarr had done. You knew and you never tried to make things right. You may not be him, but you _ are  _ no better. _

The thought stumbled him and J'hazarr did not move fast enough to back out of range of the strike. He was in the process of swinging his sword around in an arc to bring it down on Rullus's helm when the shards slashed through his gambeson and bit into his skin. Blood sprang up from the multiple jagged cuts drawn across his chest and then a knee slammed into his belly. The pain was horrible, gut-splitting. J'hazarr's eyes popped open wide and he gasped while stumbling backward, snapping the sword up in front of his head to protect it.

It seemed to Rullus that his enemy was oddly slow. There wasn't time to stop and consider that, because then he might have to think about why, and the seething red thing that was presently in charge had no congress with why. He just stepped forward again and bashed at J'hazarr's unprotected chest and stomach with the shield.

There was noise. Clacking of metal, gasping for breath. Two-Colors struggled to swim back up to where things made sense, and after a moment felt herself shaking her head.  _ Tail still hurts...?  _ She managed to shove up on one elbow and squint down at it. There was a blanket tied tight around it and a... scar?

_ I was bleeding to death. J'hazarr saved me. _ She fumbled at it with weak fingers until it came loose, then winced as the flow of blood back into her tail brought pins and needles and a giddy feeling in her head. Scent flooded in: death. Death. Death. Burnt flesh and hair of more than one species, scorched metal, charred cloth. Sweat, two males, one human and one maybe-Khajiit...

_ Fuck me. _ She sat up, then almost passed out again, grabbing at her head. Whoever had healed her hadn't done enough to replenish all of her lost blood. She recognized that cottony distant feeling now for what it was, making it hard to think, hard to feel. But she could see. She could see J'hazarr and Rullus fighting – why, why now? - and -

And the dead body of Adrian de Faelencourt, ice still riming his shoes and hair. She winced.

_ J'hazarr saved me, and Adrian died. Well, J'hazarr has fought him before, he can fight him again. _

_ With no cuirass? With no magicka? Exhausted from all he has already done? _

She tried to struggle to her feet, groping for her dagger, and fell back again, dizzy.  _ NO. No. No! _

 

* * *

J'hazarr was able to lower the sword in time to block the shield, but the shield still slammed into his sword, and the sword into J'hazarr. He was knocked back again, his chest and stomach still throbbing where he'd been stabbed and hit. J'hazarr skirted to Rullus' right, away from that shield, and thrust his sword underhand at the man's side.

Rullus turned with him, but not fast enough. The glass blade found a thinner place near the cuirass's fasteners and drove straight through; the padding beneath could no more stop it than could paper. Pain flared in his right side. He twisted away automatically, grunting, and jerked forward to try and break the bones in J'hazarr's hand with the hilt of his broken sword. The glass blade cut a notch in cuirass and padding and flesh before it came free.

The hilt smashing into his gauntleted knuckles was painful but J'hazarr held fast to his sword. Losing that would be his death. He grit his teeth against the throbbing ache in his hand and slashed again at Rullus' shield.

Glass struck ebony again, and already marked by daedric metal, the ebony gave. Rather than backpedal as the shield split over his hand Rullus thrust his fist between the shattering halves, risking his fingers as he seized J'hazarr's wrist.

J'hazarr snarled in his face when the Khajiit's reflexive backward yank failed to dislodge him from the man's grip. He kicked Rullus' leg as a distraction and reached up with his left hand to take back his sword.

Rullus held on grimly, growling back deep in his throat, the most animal thing he had ever done. Later he might be ashamed and disgusted. Right now he was still furious. The halves of the shield bounced off his arm and boot and skidded away in the sand. The kick dented his armored greave only slightly, and he was sufficiently braced that it affected his posture not at all. J'hazarr succeeded in switching hands with the sword, but Rullus stepped in to try to hook his sword-arm around the Khajiit's neck. If he could get both hands on his foe he might throw him across his hip, and once on the ground the advantage of speed and reach would be all but lost.

Perhaps some part of him thought that, or he wished to tell himself that what he was doing was tactical, but uppermost in his thoughts were the words  _ grab, throw, smash. _

J'hazarr didn't quite grasp what was happening until it was too late. He tugged against the man's iron grip and battered his sword against his side, but they were too close together for J'hazarr to put power into his strike. The glass scraped uselessly against Rullus' right pauldron. Then a heavy arm closed around his neck and beach became sky as the Imperial flipped him off the ground like a child. He rolled over Rullus' back, over his hip and slammed into the ground. His head bounced against the sand.

The impact drove the air from his lungs. A very undignified “pfah!” escaped J'hazarr's gaping mouth and he kicked straight up to knock Rullus away.

 

* * *

All right. Standing up was for shit. She'd have to crawl. Two-Colors rolled onto her belly and started to drag herself toward the two men, elbow over elbow, dagger clutched in her right hand. She had to stop often. She kept losing her grip, or having to stop and wait on the tilting horizon to be still again.

J'hazarr was on the ground. She tried to speed up, gritting her teeth. Tears stood in her eyes. They might as well be a million miles away.

 

* * *

The kick struck Rullus' wounded side, but instead of staggering him it flooded his body with adrenaline and his head with rage. The pain evaporated almost immediately. He shoved J'hazarr's leg aside and dropped to one knee beside him, tossing the remnant of his sword away to seize the Khajiit by the throat and pound his other fist into his unarmored guts. He did not even check to see if J'hazarr still had the glass blade.

The fist to his stomach couldn't drive out anymore air. J'hazarr felt like his innards had burst; the pain was intense and immediate and he thrashed, trying to hit Rullus with his knees. He grabbed the hand round his neck with his right, fingers digging into Rullus' gauntlet in an attempt to peel him away. His black eyes bulged.

Seldom in his long life had J'hazarr ever felt the desperate panic that he did then. The grief was forgotten and there was only the animal need to survive, to pry off the hand crushing his windpipe.

J'hazarr still held the sword by the hilt in his left hand. He dropped the pommel against the ground to grasp the blade and thrust up at the slit in Rullus' helm.

Blind rage nearly killed him there and then. Rullus leaned back just in time to have the blade strike the helm above his eyes. It pierced the ebony and notched through to come out again, making twin holes as it sliced his forehead at the hairline. He stopped hitting J'hazarr to grab at his foe's sword wrist, pushing at the helm with his other hand. It came free of the blade, but his desperate shove knocked it back from his head. Blood ran down and matted the ruin of his right eyebrow, slithering between the channels of his scars.

J'hazarr gasped when the hand released him, and then his chest shuddered with ragged inhalations. A curious pain bloomed in his forehead. He was red-faced, eyes wide and wild, veins standing out on his forehead. The cuts on his chest had continued to bleed and now a large red stain covered his entire torso. He clawed at Rullus' cuirass with his right hand, fingers seeking handholds in the armor to pull himself up while he kicked against the sand with his heels to push off the ground. He fought to jerk his left hand free of the Imperial's grasp.

The first drops of rain plashed gently down upon J'hazarr's face, pinged against Rullus' broad armored back.

Rullus stared coldly down at J'hazarr, fingers tight around his wrist. The ha nd scrabbling at his armor he completely i gnored. Swiftly he threw one leg over the Khajiit's body, pinioning his waist between armored thighs. Kick as he might against the ground, he would be trying to lift more than three hundred pounds with the wounded muscles of his torso. The Imperial's fingers tightened cruelly around the steel gauntlet, and the metal creaked and complained as the implacable grip closed further.

With his left hand he began hitting J'hazarr in the chest, short, hard blows. There wasn't really room to draw his fist back far and still hit without a full-body movement that might lose his purchase, or he could easily have crushed the Khajiit's chest with one blow of the ebony gauntlet. As the rain picked up drops of water ran from his bald head and mingled with the blood on his face, running from his right side.

He forced himself to look at J'hazarr's face. He was ready to see the light of undying hatred and evil in the eyes of the enemy he had long pursued.

“ Die, monster,” he snarled. “Curse me and die. Pretending won't save you. Idrasa's not here to save your worthless life.”

Water from the sky pattered down into J’hazarr’s his eyes, half blinding him. He tried to grab the other man's wrists to hold him off but it was too easy for the Imperial to rip his hands away or evade him completely. Finally there was nothing left to do but hold his arms over his face, trying to guess where each blow would land so he could block it, but at last a heavy fist slammed down onto J'hazarr's head from the side. There was a sharp crack when metal knuckles met the Khajiit's right cheekbone, shattering his skull below the eye. His head snapped sideways, lights dancing in front of his tightly closed eyes. J'hazarr's shriek was inhuman, animal, desperate – as it had been that night in the sewer so many years ago.

“ Look at me,” Rullus snarled, seizing J'hazarr's collar to shake him. Rullus was no lightweight, but at the moment he was feeling almost nothing, neither pain nor exertion. “Look at me, damn you!” He drew back his fist again for another blow to the face.

Two-Colors blacked out again trying to crawl over the dead body of the man in the heavy armor. When she raised her head it was in time to hear Rullus' voice, furious, pitiless, almost mad.  _ He'll kill him. He'll kill him and I can't stop it.  _ The cold rain on her scales mingled with hot tears flowing down her cheeks as she struggled forward, grabbing up the dagger again.

It was then that J'hazarr realized he was going to die. It was the outcome he had sought all along without knowing it. He would never be able to live with himself if he killed Rullus – no, J'hazarr's death was the only way to end this loathsome story.

J'hazarr opened his eyes, blinking up at Rullus through the rain and the gaps in his arms crossed over his face, and for one perfect moment he saw with crystal clarity. The agonizing throb of his injuries was present, but distant. He felt terror as well, the cumbrous dread that came with leaving a certain world for an uncertain one. But most of all he felt a sort of calm acceptance.

Of all the things J'hazarr had done to try to alleviate his guilt, accepting punishment had never crossed his mind as an actual possibility. But why shouldn't he? Morga had been punished. J'hazarr had played judge, jury, and executioner to every cultist he had ever met. It was his turn, now, and there was no better man to heft the axe than Rullus Ennius of Lambing Green.

“ I'm looking,” J'hazarr whispered. His voice was hoarse and barely audible. The waves lapping against the shore, the wind and even the soft thunder were all beautiful sounds to die to.

Rullus clenched his left fist so hard that the joints of his gauntlet creaked -

And stopped. He froze there, panting, teeth bared in the rain and the cold draft blowing from the sea, eyes locked on J'hazarr's.

_ Now. Let it end now! This is all that you have sought for fourteen years of your life! _

J'hazarr let his arms drop to his sides, his head lolling sideways also. He could not look Rullus in the face as it happened – He was not strong enough to completely divest himself of urge to flinch away from pain. From here he could see the ocean past the corpses, grey waves dimpled with raindrops rolling under a grey sky.

He knew that Two-Colors would survive without him, just as she had always done. She had the persevering spirit. J'hazarr only regretted that he would never get to watch her life change for the better.

He wondered if the unborn had souls. J'hazarr hoped so. He hoped Olivia had not been alone all these years, if people still existed with all their earthly thoughts and feelings up there in Aetherius. He might never know.

“ I hope I can meet her...” The words rolled out on a shuddering breath and J'hazarr closed his eyes, trapping hot tears under the lids. “If only to... say that I'm...” The sand at his back and the cold on his skin suddenly felt very far away, unreal, a sensation happening to some other mer.

_ Sorry!? _

Rullus started to shake, still staring down at J'hazarr.

_ What are you waiting for? _

The rage that he had worn like a second armor was cracking, shedding away like scales from his eyes. He grasped after it and it slipped away through his fingers.

_ There is no lie in his eyes. You cannot pretend that there is. _

A gasp to his left pulled his head around and he saw the Argonian trying to crawl toward them, clutching the dagger in her hand as she pulled herself over the sand. A long drag trail led from where he had left her. He could tell that there were tears on her cheeks even in the rain, by the red and swollen look of her eyes.

Rullus looked down at J'hazarr, his hand still clutching the Khajiit's padded shirt. His cheekbone was shattered, his face swollen and bruised, and Rullus remembered clearly each blow to the betmer's chest and stomach. More than one of his ribs was broken. He was probably bleeding internally; it was the merest chance that Rullus had not yet severed the great vessel in his belly.

“ I did this,” he said, barely audibly, half to himself. “Is this what I now am?”  _ I did it to a man with no shield, no helm, no cuirass. I didn't even wait to let him take armor from the dead. And I threw my sword away so that I could beat him to death with my bare hands. Is that justice? Is that the right, to be commended by Stendarr and all the Divines? Is that what Olivia would have wanted? _

He lowered his arm slowly, turning his head to look over at the body of Adrian de Faelencourt. The Breton's clothes were sodden now from the rain, the ice melted, but his pale dead face still held that strange little smile.

_ Is it what Adrian would want? _

J'hazarr's breathing was harsh and full of long pauses – every inhalation was pain. The tears leaking down from his eyes were indistinguishable from the raindrops rolling down his battered face. He’d heard Rullus speaking, but the words were muffled. Their meaning did not penetrate.

J'hazarr wanted this to be over. It would be soon. The world was quickly slipping away. There wasn't any bright light and there wasn't a picture book of memories flipping rapidly through his mind's eye. There was only distant cold, and pain, and sorrow, and a readiness for those things to end.

Rullus rolled to one side, off J'hazarr, sitting in the sand. His shoulders shuddered once, then again. He was not a man to readily weep, but now water stood in his eyes. After a moment he began to sob openly, great silent gasps shaking his shoulders. Not only for Olivia, who had been gone a long time now; not only for Adrian, whose loss still hurt him like a twisting knife; but for J'hazarr, who had run for fourteen years from something done by someone whose memories he must carry without understanding, like a child handed a sword. He saw himself as the Argonian girl must see him, a juggernaut in heavy black armor, a creature without love or pity. As the thing that he had always supposed J'hazarr to be. And he wept for himself, that he had wasted so much time and blood and toil on something that had no value at all.

He had not yet let go. He sat with one hand still clenched around J'hazarr's collar. Now he half-lifted the Khajiit and dragged him over into his own lap, laying his free arm around J'hazarr's shoulders, and through that clutching hand he released magicka, the most powerful healing spell that he knew. It would not only heal in one great burst, but continue healing for almost a minute, regenerating flesh and lost blood. He did not open his eyes or cease to weep, though as the adrenaline left his body he now felt pain in his side, in his head. He pushed it aside as he had always done.  _ I deserve so much worse. _

Two-Colors stared without understanding, dizzy and aching and confused. What was happening? She shoved the dagger back into its sheath and wormed her way forward, hauling herself up onto the Imperial's greave before the world grayed again and she slumped there, panting, one hand reaching blindly for J'hazarr.

 

* * *

The pain was rapidly fading while the cold and uncomfortable wetness came rushing back. Those sensations were accompanied by a warmth that briefly surged through J'hazarr's insides, along with the mild discomfort of bones clicking into place.

When J'hazarr's eyes opened he realized that he was still alive and the hard steel at his back was Rullus' legs. The shattered bones in his face had just finished shifting under the skin when he turned his face aside in bewilderment to look at Two-Colors, who was inexplicably present. J'hazarr reached for her, to enclose her small hand in his own. His quivering lips pressed tightly together and he squeezed, desperate to feel her through his gauntlet.

He finally looked up at the Imperial's face to see that the man was sobbing silently. New tears rolled one after the other from J'hazarr's water-slicked eyes. Rullus had saved him. J'hazarr knew the reason why, but he wasn't able to form coherent thoughts, to organize everything in a way that could be explained. Nor could he speak because his voice would break.

Instead he put his arm around Rullus, gripping him tightly by the shoulder. Holding Two-Colors in one hand and Rullus with the other, J'hazarr wept silently with him. A soft rain continued to patter down on all of them, mingling with the tears and the blood.


	21. Epilogue

# Epilogue

  


In the end, Rullus used the last of his magicka to cast his lesser heal three times: once for himself, twice for Two-Colors. They dragged the boat far enough up the beach to pile all the bodies on it. He laid Adrian in the center of the deck with his hands folded composedly on his stomach. Adrian had always been in charge of the purse, and he had to acknowledge that he might need it later, but removing it from the body was one of the hardest things Rullus had ever done. It rustled oddly, as if there were something inside that was not coin. He managed to get a torch going with a rag and a stick and the tinder box from his bag, and then J'hazarr helped him push the boat back out and he lit it as it drifted away. The timbers were caulked with pitch. Neither sea nor rain could stop them going up immediately and with vigor. He watched it burn only long enough to be sure that it would keep on before he turned away.

No one said a great deal over the long walk to Suran. His shield and sword broken, Rullus now had a daedric axe stuck into the harness on his back. All three were exhausted by the day's events. As they walked Rullus opened the money pouch and found a letter. Despite the continuing drizzle, he pushed his helmet back to make it easier to read.

  


_Dear Rullus:_

_I've put this letter into the money bag because I know it is the only thing you would take from my body. You're welcome to anything else that's of use, if that helps._

_I assume you've found this because I have at last succumbed, either to violence or to cirrhosis of the liver. I hope in either case that I did not bring too great of a burden on you before the end. I write this here in camp before we go to seek the Argonian. I expect I will not survive the hazards of this last journey, and I am reconciled to that probability. If there are remains requiring disposal, or time to do so, do whatever gives you most ease. If not, well, I'm not using them any longer. I shan't kick up a fuss._

_Either way, I want to assure you that it is not your fault. In my first youth I was talented and arrogant, and I chose badly. That great error does not really bear on where we are today; the important fact is that I went into exile rather than face my family when my plans failed. Potions fed my first addiction, as they often do for those of us born under the Atronach. That became too expensive, and then it was alcohol. You saw what I was willing to do for that by the time we met. As we traveled together I gradually weaned myself away from the worst of the drink, but I knew that I could never again allow myself to carry magicka. It is a need far surpassing liquor._

_But I wander. I did my best to drink myself into the grave. It just took a while before it became evident that I had succeeded. I've been healed a few times now, including by yourself for other reasons and by temple priests when I had time, but healing can't bring back what's really gone. There's not enough liver left to keep me going. There's water in my chest smashing up my lungs now and the damn cough just never goes away. I've concealed it as much as I could. Nothing can save me, and I wanted to spend my last days with the only one who will long remember my name, not limping around some temple basement tended by strangers. I hope that as time passes you will forgive this selfishness. I think that you will. You have it in you to be a giving man, if you let yourself be so._

_You've been a loyal friend to me long since I ceased to be of any real use to you, and there are no terms in which I can fully express my gratitude, my esteem, and my admiration. Thank you._

_My greatest regret is that you will now be alone. You don't have to be, but to choose otherwise may not be possible for you right now. I hope that at least you are able to let go of your pursuit now that we know the killer of Lambing Green is dead. You have it in you also to be just, not merely vengeful. You may not be certain of this about yourself, Rullus, but I am._

_You have spoken to me of other survivors. Perhaps it is time that you sought them out. Even after this much time has passed, it may not be too late. You are still young enough to find some other life than this. But perhaps I wander again. There are times of late when I am certain my mind is going. Whatever happens, I know the end cannot be far off._

_You may one day look on these years as time lost - but please remember that to me they were time gained. I think I can fairly say I leave this world a better man than the sot you met in Bravil, and it is because of you._

_With all my love, I remain_

_Adrian de Faelencourt, Lord Savilard, Fifth of his Line._

  


Rullus read it over twice. Then he rolled the vellum up carefully and put it into his knapsack. For several minutes he wept quietly as they walked, neither attempting to hide it nor to explain. J'hazarr, who had seen Adrian writing it, could probably guess at its contents; Two-Colors, with unaccustomed clarity, knew this was not the time to ask. No one talked about stopping to rest on the way until darkness forced a halt. They slept briefly under a thicket of roobrush, scratchy and dry.

Suran was a smaller city than Balmora, but its clay walls were similar in construction, brown and dull in the gray day morning. The streets were narrower, the walls higher, casting long shadows. Though the population was smaller, they seemed richer, orcish or even glass equipment worn here and there, finer clothes, more elaborate headdresses.

There was an esplanade overlooking the river on the city's East with a great many piers to host water traffic. It was a tired and haggard trio that made their way to the inn that was nearest the water, a rickety structure called the Fish's Daughter. There they found Idrasa and Got-No-Home, and with very brief explanation they went to charter their boat. Got-No-Home looked stricken as he realized they had lost Adrian de Faelencourt.

“Never again,” Two-Colors heard him say to Idrasa, as they hauled their things up the gangplank of a small single-masted vessel. “I am finished running away to leave men to die behind me, Idrasa. This is where it ends.”

Everyone was on edge until they were fully out to sea. Then Two-Colors went to curl up in a huge coil of rope with a blanket around her, squinting into the cold wind as she kept an eye on the two men. Rullus stood near the rail, looking ahead at the strait. The water was not becalmed, but it did not look especially rough. The air was fresh. The ship was crewed by a couple of Dunmer brothers, saturnine fellows who wore their amulets of the Tribunal openly and proudly even in spite of recent events; Two-Colors suspected they might be some distant relations of Idrasa's. Or maybe that was racist. Who knew.

 

* * *

 

There was very little communication between any of them that first night; a couple of brief words were enough to coordinate the few things that needed doing. J'hazarr somberly watched the pyre-boat burn until Rullus turned away, knowing without being told that it was time to go. His emotions as they walked, as Rullus continued to weep, were complex and confused.

The one thing J'hazarr knew for certain was that his days of running were over. He felt that he really had died and been reborn a new man who would face the truths of his existence instead of run from them. He'd always pitied himself for the ruined life he'd been thrust into, the clone-offspring of a murderous worshipper of Vaermina. He was done with self-pity. J'hazarr was forty one years old, his soul permanently marked by the sorrows he had endured, but the rest of his life would be _his_ and not a ghost's. Rullus had given him something precious – not a second chance to live a better life, but a _third_.

This one would not be wasted.

The inn-keeper had taken pity on J'hazarr upon seeing his shredded, blood-stained gambeson and had given him a set clothes left behind by some other traveler. The Ohmes-raht wore those now, a long-sleeved tunic of heavy warm cotton, trousers with a tail hole hastily cut, and his own turnshoes without any sabatons to cover them up. The remaining pieces of his armor hadn't been worth saving. He'd have to buy all new, eventually, if he was able.

J'hazarr had already resolved to tell Shadazi the entire truth of his past. He might have no access to the family's fortunes after that, which would be a relief to J'hazarr more than a burden. The glass sword was still with him, hanging sheathed from his baldric; worst come to worst, J'hazarr would sell it and live off that gold for quite a while.

J'hazarr stood atop the deckhouse at the stern of the ship, watching the hulking island that had been his home for many years slowly recede. The tip of his tail twitched very slightly, thoughtfully. Ahead of them the strait opened up to a bay speckled with hundreds of tiny islands and thousands of black spires rising up from gold-plated waves. It would be slow-going maneuvering around those, but past that lay the Inner Sea and several days of endless blue.

 _If I am to be a new man, a better man, I have to say to him what I should have said from the start._ J'hazarr closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, filling up his chest with the peaceful sea-scent to calm his nerves. It didn't really help. He knew that Rullus was still hurting, and that perhaps the timing was wrong, but these words had to be spoken. His body felt unusually light, his heart heavy as he moved slowly across the deck with his hands thrust into his pockets. He forced his shoulders square.

“I'd like to speak with you, Rullus,” J'hazarr said quietly as he came up beside the other man, placing one hand on the rail, his eyes on the sea. It was the most either had said to the other since the fight.

Rullus had been dry-eyed and calm all that day, speaking little, but there was none of the constraint or hostility in his manner that had marked his previous attitude toward J'hazarr. He, too, had been thinking. He had been so secure in his own righteousness for so long, unchallenged by anyone. Though it pained him, he acknowledged that while Adrian had been his friend, it had not been his way to question anything Rullus had ever done. So when a moral difficulty presented itself, as it had the very first time he saw J'hazarr tell Two-Colors to run from him, he had pushed it away in favor of the leaden certainty that had driven him all of this time. And that had been wrong. And it must not happen again.

“Yes, I think we ought,” Rullus said now. He wore his helmet back on its thong, the daedric axe pushed to one side to avoid scraping the ebony. It still had twin flat slits in it from the glass sword. He glanced aside at J'hazarr, but it was a look of no rancor, only of weary, careful assessment.

“I did not poison the well,” J'hazarr began in a level voice. He forced himself to look Rullus in the face as he spoke, difficult as it was. His brows furrowed as if in pain, but the rest of his face was quite neutral.

“But I knew it had happened. I did not report the cult responsible to the Legion. I did not return to Lambing Green myself to see what could be done. I was too afraid for my own life, for being found out and jailed. Instead I devoted all my efforts toward revenge against Morga for what she had done to _me_.” He paused, hand tightening on the rail, mouth open and eyes flicking briefly away and back again as he considered his next words. He had to keep his eyes on Rullus. He could not look away now.

“I don't honestly know whether or not I should be considered responsible for what happened. My memories of his life are flat, like a half remembered dream, but they are a part of me I always will carry. Rullus –“ J'hazarr had to pause to breathe before continuing, his voice suddenly thick. “For that evil, and for the evil of doing nothing when I had a choice, I am so very, deeply sorry. I would give anything to go back and make it right, but I cannot.”

Rullus listened without interruption. At first he looked out at the sea, then gradually as J'hazarr went on he turned to watch the Khajiit's face. He had known him in person for only a few days, but he had sought and studied him for so many years that it felt like it had been longer. To remember again that he had not even existed for J'hazarr before this week was passing strange, though he had depended on that fact for many years of pursuit. He had studied over what to say at that first meeting for a very long time, and J'hazarr had had no inkling of who he was.

J’hazarr waited for a response, lips pressed thinly together in a painful frown.

“For my share of that,” Rullus said, and paused, jaw working. He had to get control of his voice before he could continue. “For my share of that I forgive you.”

Behind him an olive-green nose appeared over the edge of the pile of rope, two big staring yellow eyes.

J'hazarr's shoulders hitched as he silently inhaled. His lips parted wordlessly, his eyes growing glossy with unshed water. They were not words he had expected to hear from anyone, never, not in all his years of grieving, not since meeting Rullus, not even after the strange events of yesterday.

J'hazarr had never realized the true weight of the yoke he bore or what had to be done to lift it. Now it was lifting, and now he knew why. It was the second gift Rullus Ennius had granted J'hazarr, he who deserved this man's mercy least of all.

“Thank you, Rullus,” J'hazarr said. His voice was thick, strained, almost a whisper. The words were not enough to express the depth of his feeling, but he was groping and they were all he could find. J'hazarr tightly closed his eyes and dropped his chin, fingers clenched on the rail. He repeated, “Thank you.”

Rullus gave him a moment to compose himself. He was not used to all of this open emotion and, indeed, as a younger man had been raised to believe it was weak for a man to visibly weep. Adrian had been scornful of that idea, as he had been scornful of Rullus' earlier grammar. He felt a further surge of grief as he thought of all of the things he would never have learned if not for the Breton – _how to speak and write correctly in three languages, which fork is for the salad, how to comport myself in company, how to explain what I think with words -_ but he was able to tamp it down for now. It would wait.

“I have something to say as well, if you are able to hear it,” Rullus said quietly.

J'hazarr nodded, then opened his eyes which were less wet than they had been. His lips twitched between smile and frown before flattening out again.

“Of course,” he said in a tone closer to normal. His hand loosened on the rail.

“I'm not – I do not want to be the kind of man who would do what I almost did to you yesterday,” Rullus said. “I am sorry for it. I am sorry that I continued to pursue you even though after the first time I should have known you were not what I thought you were.”

He swallowed, looking back out to sea.

"I think that Adrian saw you more clearly than I did. His letter hints at it. But he would never argue with me. I think he was afraid I would leave him behind."

“I cannot begin to fathom what you must have endured all these years,” J'hazarr said, quietly, following Rullus' gaze to the sea. “But I do understand the drive for revenge. It is a sort of madness. It fills a void we don't know how else to fill. I think that hatred must be easier to bear, somehow. Easier than grief.” J'hazarr raised his other palm, a flippant what-can-you-do sort of gesture, and let the hand drop heavily down to his side.

He offered Rullus a small but heartfelt smile. “I forgive you, Rullus, and I know you are not that kind of man. Adrian knew it as well –” J'hazarr hesitated, tilting his head as he glanced sideways, considering his words. The Breton was a sensitive topic and he was not sure how much to say. After a brief pause, he continued, “He as much as told me so. We spoke briefly, that morning.”

“Thank you,” said Rullus, almost inaudibly. “That means a great deal to me. I -” he closed his hands on the rail in front of him, looking down at the ebony gauntlets. “When Olivia was gone, I left Lambing Green at once, so I was not in that house, in that field every day. But Adrian traveled with me. If I don't concentrate on remembering I forget that he isn't somewhere else on the ship, or catching up on the road, or I suddenly wonder where he is before I remember.” He looked back at J'hazarr and away again. “There was something else that he said that I would speak to you about.”

“Yes?” the Khajiit asked, tail flicking once in his uncertainty. Part of J'hazarr wished that he had not mentioned the Breton. He did not want to inflict any more pain on Rullus. But maybe it helped, somehow, for him to speak about the loss.

“In his letter he said that I should go and seek the other survivors. See if any still remain that I might be able to help,” Rullus said. “I thought only of my revenge for so long that I never considered them.” He glanced at J'hazarr again, but the Khajiit did not seem unbearably upset yet, at least. “There were six others. Two were already elderly. They would be gone now, almost certainly. But Nerilia was Altmer, still young for that race. Bruttian's boy, the temple took him in. I never knew his name, but at least I could ask after him at the Chapel in Skingrad. There was a Redguard called Saleem who lived alone and grew lily bulbs. He would be in his forties now. Of all of them, I think he is the likeliest to have stayed there. He kept to himself for the most part. And there was Sellia, the widow of Carvallus. She'd be thirty-three, thirty-four now. I don't know where she went, or if she stayed. They - ” he stopped before he said they had a daughter. There was no reason to be crueler than he was already being by telling J'hazarr all of this. “I -”

It was hard to ask. It was hard to even suggest it.

The tension in J'hazarr's face smoothed out as he listened and he kept his eyes trained sadly on the sea. The poisoning of Lambing Green had made national news and J'hazarr had read a bit about it in the paper, so he knew there had been a few survivors. He had never known their names. He hadn't wanted to know, back then. That would make them into real people he had harmed and not merely abstracts.

J'hazarr set his forearm against the rail and leaned against it, hand curling into a fist.

“I think it is a good idea for you to seek them out,” J'hazarr said dully. He was very quiet. “I ought to go as well. I have to go. I _must_ . I have to be better than I have been. But I don't – I don't know _how_ ...” He stopped before his voice could break. _How can I ever face them?_ He was terrified.

There was a soft shuffle of fabric, easily missed, as Two-Colors slithered out of the pile of rope and onto all fours, then hopped nimbly onto her feet and began to stalk around to J'hazarr's other side. Her claws made very little noise on the wooden deck. She'd had a day to practice.

Rullus turned to look down at him, brows knit. He felt that something should be done here, but he didn't know what, or how to do it. If he had been able to acknowledge or react to other people's emotions in any other way than as they related to his plans, Adrian might not have hidden his illness from him for so long. He could never forget that. It made the pain worse.

Two-Colors nudged her head into J'hazarr's left side, reaching her arm around his waist.

“We'll figure it out,” she said softly. She peeked past him at Rullus, one bright yellow eye. “All three of us. We'll figure it out.”

Rullus exhaled through his nostrils, relieved. “Yes. And they don't have to know, J'hazarr. You can help without forcing them to confront a situation as complicated as yours has been.”

The Argonian's sudden presence fortified J'hazarr in a way he never thought possible. Was this what it meant to have family? He slipped an arm across her back in turn and stood upright, chest rising with a deep inhalation. After a pause he nodded resolutely.

“It seems disingenuous to go to them and offer my support without telling them the truth of what I am, but perhaps it would be kinder not to open old wounds. I don't know the answer yet. But you're right.” He smiled weakly down at Two-Colors, rubbed his hand along her shoulder. “We have plenty of time to figure it out.”  
  


* * *

 

“Spare a coin for the infirm?” the beggar held out a wooden bowl toward a passing man who wore rich velvet, her head bowed. He started to turn her off with a curt reply, then paused, turning to stare at her. The face behind the curtain of stringy dark hair was not as old as her quavering voice would suggest, and the lines of it were lovely, a fine straight jaw and full lips and a little turned-up nose. The loose rags that draped her body did not conceal her figure as well as she no doubt thought they did, either. She was thin, but not so thin there was nothing to hold onto.

“You're very pretty, for a beggar,” he said, turning a septim between his fingers. “What's your name?”

“Sellia, Sir.” She peered up at him hopefully. Her eyes were large and very blue, and you could ignore the tired full look below them if you wished... Or you might find that more alluring than otherwise.

“All right... Sellia. What do you say to a bath and a hot meal?” he asked, smiling very slightly.

“I'd like that very much, Sir.”

“You come with me.”

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors felt a surge of giddy warmth as she watched him straighten up, head tilted sideways as she leaned her cheek against his shirt. _It was better than flin. I did that. I made someone feel better, and it was J'hazarr, who didn't feel much of anything when I met him._

 

* * *

 

It was coming on to fall in Cyrodiil, yellow and red leaves blowing across the packed dirt of the Red Ring Road. The Legionnaires who patrolled looked bigger this time of year, their padding thicker under their heavy unshined armor. The carbon steel was almost black after exposure to the weather, giving them a sterner aspect. One of the two soldiers who patrolled the West Bend, near the turn to Chorrol, was much like any other Imperial Legionnaire, a sturdy and reliable fellow, pale behind his helm where it shielded him from the sun. The horsehair crest was dyed red in token of his service to the Imperium. He rode a big roan gelding, a creature strong enough to carry his full weight in armor and steady enough not to run from fire and blood.

On the slimmer gray beside him rode a battlemage in the same armor, but unhelmed, hooded in blue wool. She was notably slimmer in figure even in padding and armor, and her skin was yellow-golden in the autumn light. Wisps of very pale yellow hair escaped around the long, pointed ears. The man carried a longsword. She carried a bow and a quiver. The air around her was gently suggestive of tremulous absence, not-quite-hereness; but another caster would have to be quite close to tell that. Corporal Carrias had often wondered what she was hiding from.

“I expect we'll have a cold winter,” she said absently, looking up into the cloudy sky.

“I expect we will, Sergeant Nerilia.”

 

* * *

 

Rullus watched the two of them, uncertain, but not disturbed. He had never been that close to any woman but Olivia. Before yesterday he did not think he had touched another person without absolute necessity in almost fourteen years. It interfered with your thinking. It made you weaker. And they might die.

Still... He had never touched Adrian, and Adrian had died anyway. Maybe it was time to think about doing things another way.

 

* * *

 

The young priest rose from his knees before the great Altar, one more shadow among shadows in this place thick with the scents of incense and old oak and wood polish. He had never removed his gray hood. He never did unless specifically asked. Under it his hair and eyes were brown, very ordinary. There was nothing that would make you look twice at his face unless you were to notice a certain cast of weary sadness, a thing unusual in a young man of only twenty-one years. Few people did notice. Brother Bruttian tried to make sure that they did not.

 

* * *

 

“Yes,” Rullus said. One corner of his mouth twitched, stretching the scar across that side. “There is always time.”

“We should drink a toast,” Two-Colors said, curling her tail gently around the outside of J'hazarr's legs. “I um... I found some flin while we were in Suran.”

 

* * *

 

There were many small monasteries in the High Colovians along the border between Hammerfell and Cyrodiil. Each had its own proud tradition, whether of brewing or of the sword or of the open hand. Most were of no particular importance. The House of the Falling Snow was not known or remembered for more than about twenty miles around. There were three buildings arranged around a central courtyard of stone, strips of raked gravel around the outer wall for some curious reason. Surely no enemy could be bothered with attacking by stealth this tiny place in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by tall conifers, its tapering peaked roof already lightly dusted with the first snow.

In the courtyard, a man in a green tunic and loose pants performed an open-handed form of some complexity, his movements fluid and easy. Genetics had made him reasonably handsome; age had brought him dignity and poise, wearing his face into lines that seemed right for him more than had the smooth face of his youth. His skin was the color of coffee without cream, and his hair had been black before it started to turn gray at the temples. He was barefoot, feet rubbing the snow from the stones. And around the rim of the courtyard lilies grew, as yet unwithered by the cold.

 

* * *

 

“Can't blame you for taking what people leave carelessly lying about, can we?” J'hazarr asked, smile stretching broad across his thin lips. His arm tightened around the little thief, snugging her close to his side. “I'll drink to friendship.”

J'hazarr inwardly trembled. It was a hard thing he had yet to face, but he would not meet the future alone. In Two-Colors he had found a friend, a precious thing he had not realized he needed. He hoped that someday Rullus could say the same of him. A friend was the least he could be to the man who had given J'hazarr his third life.

 

* * *

 

One of Cyrodiil's Shrines to Vaermina was tucked away in a small valley in the Nibenay Basin just South and West of Lake Poppad. It was a lovely place at sunset, the trees just shedding their first leaves to float away down a little river between grassy banks. The copse where the statue of the daedra Prince stood was always dark, the shadows ever-shifting. If you did not look at anything directly you would quickly be certain that you had seen things move in the corners of your eyes that could not be there at all. There were eyes here that were never shut. They watched the figure of a skinny old man in a gray robe as he limped up the little deer-path toward the shrine, leaning on a knurled staff. The robe was the robe of a priest or a mendicant, simple and worn, but the gnarled hands were those of an old farmer. The palms and knuckles were so thick with callus that a pin would have some way to go to find anything that could feel pain.

As he paused on a small rise to lean on his walking stick, looking at the worn stone image in front of him, he heard mocking laughter. Footsteps rustled behind him as robed figures emerged from the trees.

“You've come to the wrong place, old fellow,” said a voice, youthful and sure of itself. “This is a place of dark dreams. Those who enter are not suffered to leave.”

“Good,” he said, and pushed back the hood of his black cloak. His hair was white. His eyes were brilliant scarlet, and in the gloaming they gently glowed. He turned to view the worshippers of Vaermina with bright eyes and brighter teeth as he tossed the staff aside. “No one remembers my name. I wonder if anyone will remember any of yours?”

 

* * *

 

Two-Colors let go of J'hazarr reluctantly and ran back to rummage in the rope pile for her bag. She reverently extracted a small blue glass bottle and a stack of three clay cups that did not match it at all. She brought them back and poured a dram for each of them ever so carefully. She had her sea legs, but only just. She held the bottle between two fingers of her other hand as she looked at the other two.

The ship rolled on, away from Vvardenfell and into stranger country. Overhead the clouds parted ever so slightly, and the face of Magnus shone down over the green waves. And Rullus Ennius raised the cup and said,

“Better days.”

 


End file.
